Sudden Terminus
by A Very Thirsty Megalomaniac
Summary: The end is nigh. Sequel to Sudden Contact and Sudden Supremacy. Finale of the Sudden Series. The outcome is uncertain.
1. Unity

**Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps**

The Holy Host assembled, and soon the Great Work would begin.

With every pulse, Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps resonated amongst his fellows, their life radiating out in great waves of expectation. His brothers and sisters flared back, resolute to do their justified violence, to fulfil the expectations set upon them by the Enkindlers millennia ago. Their lights flickered. Their tendrils twitched.

The drell sat silently together or between their masters, clad in flexible exoskeletons that did little to hinder movement, much to enhance strength. They clutched large rifles in their armored hands, stocks braced against the bottom of the craft. Most sat with eyes shut, deep in battle sleep. When battle was joined, spirit and body would fight as one. But for now, the body rested.

The Tal'Darim burned in the far distance, like angry suns. Their worldships shone with righteous energy, the soldiers aboard them utterly certain in their duty. Few strode amongst their allies, but that was their way. They could claim an inheritance even more ancient than the hanar's; it was said they were the first the Enkindler enlisted in this war. The Last War.

And then there were the hybrid, the first awakened. Even thinking of them sent a shiver down Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps's tentacles. Where they trod, he could feel nothing at all.

Well. Perhaps yawning hunger.

Further inside the craft, Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps's companions lit up. _The Enkindler._ So many names, so many titles. God Slayer. Duran. The Amon. They mattered little. They were not even his oldest name. And from now forward, he would wear only one name, only one face, and see the Last War to its conclusion.

Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps let out a hum of happiness, his skin turning a light blue. In moments, the Amon would stand before them, and give his final blessing to his chosen. Theirs was the last craft, and with good reason. The Tal'Darim would call them Khundelar, tip of the spear. Their words would be the first to breach the stunned ears of the Citadel's residents, to spread truth and fear.

The Amon's metal boots clanked against the craft. His bare hands slid down tentacle after tentacle as he passed, the hanar reaching out just to touch him. His four eyes darted this way and that, scanning his Holy Host with obvious satisfaction. The drell woke at his passing, spirits electrified at his immense presence. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps trembled with fervor and anticipation, the culmination of his life standing before him.

The Amon stopped before him, all four eyes directed to the visor on his battle suit. He folded his arms behind his back. A chill went through Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps, colder than any trench on the homeworld. His skin stopped breathing. He quailed beneath his maker's burning gaze.

"You are the commander of this unit?" The Amon's voice, low and melodious, flavored by an empire long dead. "Yes … I remember. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps."

 _He remembers me. He remembers my true name!_ Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps glowed fiercely, the light shining through the visor and joints of his battle suit. The other hanar looked on in red envy, their flesh taking on low hues.

"This one is pleased to be worth remembering by the Amon." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps kept his voice even. "This one is also pleased to confirm the Amon's suspicions. I am the battle chaplain of this unit."

"You are of sufficient worth today, I think, to refer to yourself in the first person." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps's skin warmed even further, a deep radiance building within himself. "I am diverting you from the Presidium. There is a matter that requires my attention, and I need the best of my troops to handle it."

"This o – I am pleased to count this unit among that number." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps tried to keep the translator from broadcasting anything more than the calmest of voices, even as his tentacles twitched and his skin burned. _Have I dreamed of this happening? Have I ever dared to even dream of this?_ "We await your command."

"C-Sec HQ. High value target. I assume you would know the Spectre Sarah Kerrigan on sight, yes?" The Amon's deep voice took on a remorseful tone. Oh, how he tortured himself over what must needs be done. The agent, Miranda Lawson, was only the first of his friends to be sacrificed for the Great Work. The Last War. "Red hair. Currently imprisoned for the manslaughter of Garrus Vakarian, and attempted murder of Aldaris."

"Thi – I know her face. A strong psionic." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps rejoiced at the nod the Amon gave him. "What would you have us do?"

"Subdue her. And bring her to me. You will have Tal'Darim support." The Amon's long fingers flexed. His face contorted momentarily in pain. "Successful or not, I will see you in the Citadel Tower. You will be among those to bear witness to the first in a long line of the Reapers' disappointments. I intend to see Harbinger reduced to silence."

"I am honored by this invitation." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps's translator trembled at this, but the Amon did not appear to notice. He extended his right hand. One of Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps's left tentacles snaked out of the gap between suit and weapon, reaching for the closest finger. It brushed the Amon's skin with the lightest of touches. It felt leathery and warm to the touch, but alive with an undercurrent of searing electricity. _Blessed. I am blessed._

"Raise your voices together in harmony, and sing of our enemy's destruction." The Amon lifted his hands before his people, whose skin glowed in joined reverie. "Begin the battle chant. Prepare your sermons. Do not fall silent until the last foe falls silent. The first notes of the song now creep from the depths on Kahje. It will not cease until the war ends."

The Amon's words now echoed within all of their minds, his proclamations carrying to all corners of all fleets. Soon the galaxy would shake. Soon the fools would burn. The Reapers would come … and one by one, they would fall at the Amon's hand.

"Whatever happens in these coming times, whatever setbacks we experience, do not judge yourselves too harshly. All of it was my doing; these were my mistakes. I tried to avert the worst of our current situation, and I failed." The Amon lowered his hands, fists balling at his sides. "Take heart that when I look to you, I do not see the same primitives I stumbled upon millennia ago. I see strength. I see anger. I see the downfall of our enemy."

The Amon shut all four eyes, breathing heavily.

"Go forth. Begin the Last War, and end any illusion of peace in this galaxy."

"The Holy shall triumph. Blessed are the Enkindlers. We shall bring truth to the galaxy." All hanar shone with these words. Even some of the drells' lips moved silently at these words. The Enkindler turned his back to Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps. The hum of the ship grew louder.

"Bring up C-Sec Headquarter overlay." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps's visor lit up with improvised schematics; the actual layout of C-Sec Headquarters was not readily accessible to those outside of the organization, but drell never forgot anything they saw. The only flaw in these blueprints was the slightly unsteady hand of the one who had penned it. _Assuming optimal flight path … yes._ "Coral team, storm up left stairs and secure the elevator. Suppress targets from the balcony. Monsoon team, take descending steps dead ahead and eliminate all resistance. Hunter team, with me. We are bound for the brig."

"We will bring fire. We will bring thunder."

The radios crackled above. High clear notes came through, interlaced with the background noise of a roaring ocean. _They sing from Kahje._ Others took up the music, raising the appendages on their suits in joyous triumph. The ship shifted almost imperceptibly beneath them.

The captain did not have to tell them when they would jump. The chorus approached.

 _And yea, did we weep at the war's coming, in joy at the end of wait, in sorrow that so much suffering must be shared._

"Forward then,

In name of peace

In defense of good

For falsehood's cease.

Forward then,

In Javik's name

Halt only in death

Let fools cast blame."

The ship shone and stretched at the promised mass recall. The burning coals on the horizon, Tal'Darim and hybrid alike, faded into simmering afterimages. Within their assault tube, brother locked with brother, sister with sister, minds and tentacles joined together. Even if one of them fell, they would be remembered by this one last joining. They shone together in the dark of between places, wondering if their names, true or otherwise, would one day be inscribed on the shining coral beneath Unhur, or chanted in the deep places not even the Enkindler could visit?

 _Perhaps. It all depends on our victory today._

 _It is fortunate that all is as foretold._

"For the future."

Space and time reassembled themselves, and both hanar and drell let limbs drop. The tube clanked into place, the exit locking itself in preparation for launch. With a slight grinding sound, the tube inched forward, then slightly to the right. A final click prompted the countdown.

The speakers still blared music from Kahje, but no one spoke or shone. The drell now sat up, bodies awoken. The countdown reached its Terminus. Time seemed to stand still for a moment.

With a whoosh of air and released pressure, the tube launched itself from the belly of the hanar Temple Ship, one of hundreds descending on the Citadel. All wards. Every inch of the Presidium. _Like the shock of a tsunami breaking on an inhabited coastline, so shall we break on the Citadel. When we pass, it will still stand … but it will be filled with us, changed forever._

The tube jolted forward with a scream of metal on metal, the inertial dampeners working full force to soften the impact. Within the craft, Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps barely twitched. For a moment, all that could be heard were the moans of a broken Citadel activating its environmental stabilizers and the soft hissing of broken pipes. Then, alarms. Alarms and calls to arms.

"Begin."

The end of the tube popped open, and Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps slid out, the first among their number. His tentacles gripped the triggers within his battle suit firmly, all four gauss rifles finding different targets as his computers did their work. The tentacles need only squeeze, occasionally shift and adjust. He was ready. A pylon hummed overhead, promising swift and brutal retaliation if left alone.

"Surrender and be spared!" bellowed Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps, loudspeakers blaring from the shoulders of his suit. "We do the Enkindler's work, the work of the Amon! Lay down your weapons and accept his wisdom!"

"Unidentified hostile! Perimeter breach!" The first responders, pulling side arms and shouting for him to surrender. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps turned a faint orange. The first mass effect round pinged into his barrier.

All four gauss rifles went off simultaneously, spitting death to four separate corners of the lobby. Severed limbs spiraled into the air, training blood, and the air filled with screams and smoke. The computer re-targeted. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps did not release the trigger, the casings piling at his feet. The rest of the unit began to drop from the tube.

"His voice is fury! We are his clenched fist!" Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps stepped forward, rifles steaming, refilling with rounds as the suit completed an auto-reload. "All teams, to positions."

The drell hurried past, their lithe forms like liquid death. A brother came to Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps's side. Another. They stepped forward through fire and chaos.

"Get a fire team into position. Who the fuck are these people? Where are the spirits-damned protoss?"

A heavy figure burst through the smoke, blades burning through the dark.

"Khassar de templari!" The zealot's gaze fixed on the hanar line. Armored figures came to its side, the first of the power armored C-Sec defenders. Coral team wasted no time.

The C-Sec officers staggered as Widow rounds sheared through barriers with the sound of shattering glass. The zealot roared and charged, shield lighting up as Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps's entire fire team lit him up, shield fading in moments. Sparks flew from his armor as he made it to the first hanar, whose guns retracted in favor of psi blades of his own, glowing a fierce green.

It was true that no hanar could ever withstand a Firstborn in close combat, even assisted by their technology. But it was also true that no protoss carried four weapons as the hanar did. As the protoss sliced through barrier and armor, the hanar's own blades whirled in impressive arcs, two coming down overhead to be caught by the protoss's waiting weapons, the other two sneaking in under to catch him in the sides.

The zealot grunted as blood blossomed all over his torso, but still managed to throw his foe's weapons aside before bringing the blades inward and pulling them out to the side. With a gush of blood and water, the hanar fell into two halves. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps became louder.

"Where one falls, another avenges! One wave recedes, to become the basis of another!" The protoss finally cried out, his suit flaring. His body vanished in a flash of light. Still the hanar advanced.

"Damn it, they're not stopping!"

"Getting reports, they're hitting all wards, all sectors! And they've got-"

"And so we stand on the Citadel. At last."

Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps turned to look at Coral Team, some of whom now parted from the balcony. Two Ascendants stared down at the chaos with red eyes and folded arms. One pointed a long and taloned finger. Screams and lightning erupted forth from the gesture.

"Rend them."

The Ascendants descended the stairs as if this were a religious ceremony rather than a battlefield, full of pomp and purpose. Their feet did not touch the ground. Where they floated, the dying choked and fell silent, and the living paled and weakened.

Two more zealots charged into the fray, pausing only momentarily as the languid enemy protoss regarded them. They did not stop their gentle advance.

The zealots let forth a mental roar and charged. The Ascendant turned aside the first cut with a flick of the hand, the second likewise. At the third, he caught the zealot by the wrist and brought him in close, face to face. The other hand grabbed him by the throat. Tendrils of smoke rose where the fingertips met neck.

The other Ascendant likewise choked the zealot. Neither radiated anything except calm. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps led his hanar forward, not bothering to watch the spectacle any further. Two unarmed asari huddled beneath an overturned desk and watched their passing with wide eyes, clinging to each other in fear. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps passed them without a word.

A turian C-Sec gurgled his last, eyes wide as the blue flowed freely from the holes in his chest. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps threw one glance back to the Tal'Darim behind him, who now lay two unconscious zealots on their sides.

 _Mercy._ There were far better deaths than to have the last dregs of life leeched by Tal'Darim. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps angled one rifle downward and fired a final shot between the turian's eyes, sending blue in all directions.

Drell scattered all over now, rounding up civilians and surrendering C-Sec alike. The Ascendants merely floated serenely over to the pylon floating above it all, which sparked and shook from the damage taken. They laid their hands upon it.

It was like watching the water drain from their battle suits. The blue stone lost its vibrant hue, becoming cracked and gray. It began to tip, gradually, as if losing its sense of balance. Finally, it fell with an almighty crash to the floor, splintering in all directions. The Ascendants emerged from the thrown dust whilst saying nothing, hands glowing a faint red.

"Target below us." The hanar marched on borrowed feet down the steps to the brig. Two drell filed in behind him, followed by the rest of his fire team.

"Hostile." Rounds ricocheted off of floor and ceiling, and Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps buckled as a warp struck his barriers. A brace of blue grenades quickly followed.

"Back!"

The grenades burst, sending Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps backward into a wall, which buckled at his weight. Stars graced Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps's vision momentarily as he right himself, keeping three guns primed for the hostile while he used the fourth arm to push himself up. A glowing blue figure came flying through the settling smoke and dust.

A turian, clad in unfamiliar armor that defied their sensors, sent a drell sprawling with a biotic punch, before drilling him three times between the eyes with his rifle. The first broke barrier, the second armor, the third skull. _Another wave breaks over the first!_ Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps let loose a free burst at the turian.

The turian twisted into a blue stream which terminated in a burst back at the cells. A hanar cried out as Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps guns ripped into him, spraying water and blood everywhere.

"Regret. Regret. Regret." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps rounded his guns back to the brigs and fired in short bursts, trying to suppress his target, whom he had since lost track of. The other hanar followed suit, covering the floor and visible walls of the room in deep cherry-red rents.

As Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps approached the doorway, the turian rounded the corner, first glowing. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps caught the first punch and held steady, body rocking slightly as he absorbed the blow. The second punch came to the abdomen. His barrier broke and he doubled over, armor crumpling.

The surviving drell darted through, aiming a quick snap kick at the turian, whose barriers deflected it. He grunted, moving in closer to the drell and aiming a flurry of biotically powered bunches at his assailant, who nimbly darted aside. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps tried to bring his guns to bear, but the turian sent another warp into him, nearly knocking him down. The suit began to hum a funeral hymn as his vitals went haywire, sending a thrum of anxiety through him.

 _Not the first battle, no! I have so many others to survive._ Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps twitched his gun upward at the turian, who turned aside three swift punches from the drell. Behind him, the other hanar struggled to get a shot around Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps suit, which blocked most of the doorway. The edges of Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps's vision turned a bright red.

The turian grunted as a backhanded blow caught him across the face, sending him reeling. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps went with his instinct and fired a short burst. The turian's barriers broke in a crescendo of breaking glass and a single round caught him in the side, sending a spray of blue. He fell to a knee, gasping in pain as he planted a firm hand on the wound. The drell leveled his pistol at the turian's head.

"I would see this one's face." It felt so strange to refer to himself as "I" in the company of his men. Yet Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps rose to his full height, body quivering inside his suit, acting on a suspicion. "I think I know this one's face."

The drell ripped the helmet free. Saren Arterius stared up at them, defiant.

"Yes. There are few biotic turians. And this one fights like a Spectre. Bind his hands and keep him with us." The drell produced omnities, binding Saren's hands behind his back. "Treat that wound."

Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps turned his attention to the rest of the room, his suit slowly restoring his vital signs to what they should be. He felt a jet of cool water hiss into his tank, and he was not ashamed to admit he wriggled with satisfaction.

The security desk glowed faintly from the innumerable massive rounds that had made it unrecognizable. The door to the cells beyond it stood noticeably ajar. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps looked to Saren, feeling a sudden gray of anxiety. _Did he…?_

Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps strode into the cells, guns ready. Prisoners called out to him, asking who the hell he was, what was going on, what _was_ he? Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps ignored them all and moved to the solitary cells, where they kept Kerrigan.

It likewise stood open. To the right, an open vent. The gray anxiety deepened.

Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps returned to Saren, whose defiance began to enrage rather than depress. He pressed a gun under the turian's chin.

"Did you free her?"

"Said you were coming for her." Saren spat a turquoise gob on the ground. "She wouldn't lie to me … and I don't want you people, whoever you are, to lay hands on her. So she's gone. Follow, and she'll kill you."

"We must hasten the Citadel's exodus." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps motioned with a free gun. "To the Presidium, then through to the Tower. Assist as we are able."

"You with the Reapers?" Saren spat the word out with such hatred that Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps noted the tone for future usage. His translator could surely translate it. "UED? Rogue protoss? Kerrigan said she felt … hanar."

"Yes." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps snaked one of his tentacles out through the gap between gun and suit, let it grace Saren's face. The revulsion he expressed in his eyes felt deeply satisfying. "I am Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps. I have been deemed worthy."

The drell brought Saren to his feet and pushed him forward. The hanar made their blessed way to the elevator that would take them to the Presidium. The alarms went off on all floors. Monsoon Team now huddled the civilians into the corner, while Coral Team waited by the elevator, several fresh corpses at their feet. Apparently, C-Sec had people coming down when the fighting started. _A bad way to go, seeing your death through clear doors and knowing it was too late … but they could always have surrendered._ Of the Tal'Darim, Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps saw no sign beyond a stretch of blackened bodies terminating at his own tendrils.

"Beneril, Tulam, with me." The two hanar joined him in the elevator while the others waited. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps pointed to Saren. "He will come with us. He may explain to the Amon himself what he did. And he may be of use, should the Amon find mercy within himself."

The four of them stood in the elevator as it shot to the Presidium, Saren panting, staring up occasionally in disbelief. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps thought he heard the turian gasp as the doors opened to the Presidium, in one of its upper level shopping centers.

A flaming C-Sec patrol car went spiraling by, bound to bury itself in some dark corner of the Citadel to be picked over by keepers. A C-Sec Goliath's chainguns steamed from a balcony, firing at some unseen target. On a level above it, C-Sec officers in power armor faced down a hybrid reaver, calling it a biotic ultralisk. It lowered its head to charge.

"Forward." They did not have time to watch the carnage. Weapons fire could be seen emerging from every balcony, every terrace. Saren moved forward with a prod from an errant gauss rifle. A gleaming purple tentacle emerged from below, attached to some unfathomable hybrid creature the Amon probably had yet to name. With a crack like a whip, it speared the Goliath and pulled it below, out of sight.

Above, the C-Sec officers backed up frantically as a screaming salarian fell cleanly in half on either end of the creature's scythes. The reaver distorted as if surrounded by heat, pulling them closer with its psionics. What followed warranted the ensuing frenzied screaming, and Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps felt a strong desire to look away.

Ascendants floated across the Presidium with a disconcerting ease, crimson cloaks fluttering from the fluctuations in the air rent by distant explosions. Their shields only rarely flared from any impact. Where they landed, smoke and ash swiftly obscured them from view. Where they landed, life withered in their wake. The song of Kahje, carried boundless through so many suits, did little to ease Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps's nerves. _The Reapers will find the Tal'Darim frightful foes indeed._

They found no resistance on the direct path to the Tower's elevator, but plenty of resistance around them. In the distance, a pylon exploded as another hybrid tentacle pierced its heart. When the smoke faded, no trace of it remained.

Two more C-Sec cars flew by, the air distorting at their passage. Beating wings followed from above, as well as ethereal cries that sounded like mutalisks if they had been planted deep underwater and given several additional sets of lungs. Unnatural shadows flitted momentarily over a nearby balcony, but vanished just as quickly. The song of Kahje grew louder. A fireball, just out of sight, marked the end of those two patrol cars.

"What hell have you unleashed?" Saren stared, dead-eyed, at a level below them. Dark Templar and Blood Hunters clashed in a flurry of hidden blades, visible only at each sword strike or parry. Neither side seemed to have an edge. "How…?"

"Up this elevator." Tulam pushed Saren forward. A direct access to the Tower, the panel already hacked. "Soon, all will be explained. To everyone."

The second elevator ride gave them a sickening view of the destruction below. Hanar and hybrid fought side by side to bring protoss low. C-Sec officers fell back to rally point after rally point as the last fortifications went up in flames. Many sound found themselves up against a wall, and died there, the Ascendants watching their final moments with subdued glee. Drell snipers crawled from balcony to balcony, picking high value targets and ending them just as quickly.

"You will answer for this." Saren sounded like he meant his words, but Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps only chuckled. "This is madness."

"We are answering like with like. Soon you will understand what we fight, and why we do this." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps felt sure of it. "Perhaps, soon enough, you will even agree. It would be … terrible, if you did not."

"Always knew there was something wrong with you jellies."

The lighting went from faux daylight to deep violet. The doors opened to steps drenched in blood. Blackened corpses ran all the way up the Tower, some protoss, some turian, some asari. At its apex, they waited.

"Ah, good. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps." The Amon did not turn to them, fiddling as he was with the central console. "And…" He paused, looked over his shoulder. The Amon usually wore a frown while in his true form, but Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps did not like the way it _deepened._ "You are not Sarah."

"You are not … who … _what_ are you?"

The question was addressed to both the Amon, the hybrid above, and the Tal'Darim that floated at his side. The protoss looked down at Saren with bemusement. The hybrid only watched with eyes wracked with a ravening madness.

"He is the answer to the Reaper's question, fool. Tread lightly; the Forged have been unleashed to test this galaxy, and have found it wanting."

"You knew me once as Samir Duran. We have a mutual friend in Jim Raynor." The Amon stepped back from the console, which lit up with unfamiliar symbols. "I take it you were unable to secure Kerrigan?"

" _This_ one freed her, and she escaped into the Citadel's underbelly." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps shoved Saren forward slightly. "I thought it best to take him alive, to either answer for the inconvenience or serve us."

"It was not your decision to make, hanar." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps shivered as the protoss addressed him. "You were told to bring the Spectre. We wanted the Spectre."

"This one is a Spectre." Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps felt endless reassurance as the Amon said this. "You did what you could. Now … we must bring this to a close, both to capture Kerrigan, and end the loss of life on both sides." The lights in the room flickered. The console shone with sudden light, broadcasting an image. It took a few moments to form. The hybrid turned in place, directing its maddening gaze at the solidifying object.

A Reaper stared down at them, its very image immense. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps felt cool pressure at the edges of his mind, as a titanic entity felt out the room. It finally fixed on the Amon.

" **You."**

"You know me on sight?" The Amon spoke with venom. "Good. We're ahead of schedule."

" **Your presence has long been felt."** The Reaper commanded all attention. Even the Highlord Alarak seemed smaller before it, although the hybrid remained undiminished. **"The Koprulu Sector. Your doing."**

"The Koprulu Sector, yes … and so much more." The Amon burned with fervor, with hate. He stood before the Reaper without a trace of fear. "I am here for you, Harbinger. I am here to draw you out."

" **Unlikely."** Some of the Reaper's inner tendrils curled in, as if folding its arms in an unimpressed fashion. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps had seen both terrans and turians do this to each other. **"You are living on time borrowed on xel'naga technology. We need only wait. The galaxy believes us defeated. Soon, you will die. Then the protoss will fade. Society will march on. The word "Reaper" will only be repeated by historians, with your crusade a footnote. Then, that too will disappear from memory. We have millennia. You have scant decades. By doing nothing, you are defeated. The harvest will continue in peace."**

"Will it, now?" The Amon's face drew back in a savage smile, glinting teeth exposed. "Your plan would work … were it not for the last legacy of the xel'naga. Look upon him. Maar. My hybrid."

" **Your…"** Harbinger fell silent for a moment, the cool pressure easing somewhat within Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps. The attention directed itself elsewhere, staring into an abyss more total than could be readily comprehended. **"There is … an imbalance."**

"The ferocity, numbers, and reproduction capabilities of the zerg. The psionics and physical strength of the protoss." The Amon shivered as he said this. "The last resort for the last war. They feed on sunlight, psionic energy … and flesh. The galaxy is filled with all of these."

" **You would curtail our gentle harvest by using these beasts?"** Harbinger spoke with a bass that set Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps quivering in his tank, but he sensed uncertainty. Shock, if he felt generous. **"They hunger. We can feel them, even through the Void. They are an unsurpassed emptiness."**

"You have two weeks to meet me here, in the field of battle." The Amon stood in the face of an angry god, and did not cower. "If you choose to remain in the cold outside the galaxy, I will unleash them. I will unleash them on all species. They will feast, they will breed, and they will spread. The psionic races shall be the first to go, what is left of the protoss and zerg. Then the sapients, the Council races, psionic or no. Then the developing races. We shall fall across every world like a ravenous shadow, as the zerg once did."

" **This is madness."**

"You inspire madness." The Amon's fists balled. "When, at last, you elect to emerge from your hiding place, you will find an army unlike any you have ever encountered in your cycles. I will be long dead, yes, but my hybrid, my Tal'Darim, my hanar, they will live on. You will fight. But the outcome will not matter, for, when you reach the galaxy, the worlds you sought to harvest will be dead. The species, gone, not to return. The harvest will be over. Victorious on the field of battle or not, the war will be long lost for there will be nothing – _nothing_ – left for you to pervert, subvert, or convert any longer."

"Perhaps I am mad, yes, but it is to be expected when one has seen the end of all things as I have, when the only way to look on the face of my people … is to look into the mirror. And even then, not always."

" **You cannot hope to threaten us."**

"I am not threatening you. I have outlined what will happen based on your actions." The Amon stared, eyes burning like the heart of a dying star. "I am the Avatar of Vengeance, the embodiment of it among my people. There is no length I will not go to. You have two weeks. Starting from this moment. This exchange is over."

Harbinger vanished into the console. The cold pressure faded from Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps's mind.

"How…" Saren looked to the Amon in part wonder, part horror, part disgust. The Amon waved it off.

"No time. Highlord – they will come for the Citadel. They will not find it."

"Good. I tire of this place." Alarak raised his hands in triumph. They shone a bright crimson.

"All units." The Amon spoke through their minds, all their minds. "Commencing mass recall. This Citadel has been a trap for too long. It is time to reinvent it."

Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps raised two tendrils, which glowed as he pushed what psionic power he possessed to its edges. Tulam and Beneril followed suit, their minds joining with his. All over the Citadel, the fighting ceased to the astonishment of what was left of the defense forces. Hybrid paused mid-slaughter. Ascendants stopped mid-flight. Hanar and drell alike contributed what they could of their might.

A corona of blue energy formed above, spreading downwards to every inch of the Citadel, enveloping everyone inside it. Somewhere, doubtless, Sarah Kerrigan felt the onslaught of psionic energy and panicked over its meaning. Somewhere, doubtless, the Daelaam feebly pushed back against the Amon's intentions, sensing they were about to be placed far from hope or help.

The Amon lifted his own hands. Many kilometers below, the bottom of the Citadel glowed a faint blue. Deep in empty space, a friendly consciousness reached out. Burns-Within-Cool-Deeps clasped it eagerly. The Citadel shifted as they began to tug.

"At long last," breathed the Amon, eyes more alive than in recorded memory. "The Last War. The War in Heaven."

Another tug, firmer this time. The Citadel tilted. Then, with a great sucking gasp, time and space bent.

With a soft pop, the Citadel vanished from the Serpent Nebula into parts unknown. After a few more frantic moments, the strange fleets that had attacked so suddenly likewise vanished leaving only confusion and a gaping, ominous silence in its wake.

* * *

 **A/N:** Schedule is going to be exceedingly erratic, but first three chapters and a good chunk of the fourth are pre-written. Will also be posting on SB and SV. Posting two days earlier than originally planned so I don't have to worry about getting this out during a school day.A big thank you to Kaoupa and NewAgeofPower for previewing these first few chapters.

I do hope this will be worth the wait.

 **Next Chapter: Amelia**


	2. Wages of Virtue

**Amelia**

The watch beeped. That meant it was time for fifty pushups.

Amelia Shepard rolled off the cot without a sound, landing on hands and knees. After a second of adjustment, down she went. The elbows clicked on the sixth and eighth rep. The air conditioning hummed above.

A gray room, a gray floor, and no windows. A bathroom complete with shower, a rack, a slot on the door for food. Three small cracks on the ceiling. Some uneven paneling on the floor. Amelia could name every detail, every errant speck inside this room. Aside from the cold air blowing in from above, the only sound that graced her ears was the occasional mild grunt as the pushups wore on. The arms clicked again on twenty-three, twenty-four, and twenty-six. Her arms ached. The temptation to plant her knees on the ground rose slightly.

 _Thirty-nine._ Amelia paused for a moment, shoulders shaking as she held herself up. She thought she heard the echoes of voices through the door. But after a few moments, all that could be heard was the air conditioning dying down again. She offered a mental shrug and finished up, rolling over.

 _Sit ups._ They could have at least left her a jump rope. Or a book. Or a picture of Stukov's face and some darts. Any would do. Her back ached from lying on the steel floor. The sensation swiftly faded as her core remembered the last set it had done an hour ago, and began flaring immediately.

The pain was something to focus on. Say what you liked, but pain wasn't boring.

That left the squats, the easiest part. She knew some people who preferred to get them done first and work their way up, but Amelia always found the hardest shit easy to do first. Once exhaustion set in, you needed to take relief where you found it. Not that she was exhausted … but the principle remained.

The blood pumped through her ears, giving the empty room a heartbeat. Her knees clicked now, on the way down. _Must be getting old._ It was just the way of things. Live long, grow old. It didn't hurt, at least. That was what her original PT instructor had always cautioned her to look out for. _Body's a house, sometimes it settles. Shit creaks as it moves around. But soon as you catch a leak or some rot, that's when it's time to slow down and make some adjustments._

Amelia stopped at fifty, checked her watch. _Six minutes. Maybe I'm not growing old._ Her face glowed a cherry red and her everything ached, but she kept the pace. _Williams would be proud. So would Anderson._ That made her want to start moving again. She kept her back straight and paced the room, letting her breath die down.

If there was a drawback to this discipline, it was that it helped her sleep. And when she slept, her brain got to do what it wanted. And what her brain wanted, as far as she could tell, was to dwell. _Ruminate_ , as Kelly Chambers would have put it.

 _Another dead face._ Her sock-wrapped feet tapped against steel, heavy and solid. Her breathing started to slow. She passed by uneven panel number four in what she had arbitrarily decided was the southwest corner. Technically, she had already exceeded the number of circuits she had allotted herself per hour, but she felt no inclination to stop. Her teeth gritted. Unwelcome thoughts pressed down on her, like earth on a coffin.

 _Serve the Directorate, serve humanity! All other priorities are-_

Amelia mouthed those words as she thought them, the proclamation of a dead admiral.

 _More thrusters, Jenkins. Always more thrusters._ A twitch of the lips. A dead gunnery chief's advice to a feckless corporal's fitness ambitions.

 _Shepard … we shouldn't-_

No. No, she was not in the mood for that memory. Unbidden sprang its twin.

 **Don't puss out on me now, you bitch.**

Amelia felt the sudden urge to lie down, her cooling blood going frigid. She returned to her cot, limbs stiff. The watch on her arm ticked on and on. She no longer felt certain she would be able to do the next hour.

For minutes, sometimes hours, even on one occasion for an entire day, the thoughts would keep at a distance. She could count off the hours, the reps, the meals. She could fantasize about what could be done next, what should have been done differently, invent entire scenarios out of whole cloth where Admiral DuGalle had survived Korhal and went on to drag the Armada home while the Koprulu Sector ineptly solved its own problems, as its denizens seemed so keen on doing. The protoss would leave them be. They would never accidentally get locked in the same system as the collector base. The list of dead would be almost empty.

 _And what a story I would have to tell. What an adventure._ She could have called it that with some honesty – an adventure. Complete with heroes like David Anderson and Jim Raynor, and wretched villains like Donovan Hock and Arcturus Mengsk. They went forth. They accomplished their mission, whose parameters had changed somewhat since the Armada's launch. They left. And it all sorted itself out in the end. _And I could find some quiet place on Mars. Get someone to ghost write a book. I don't know._

Amelia lay there in the silence. The air conditioning came back on with a clunk. Her heart beat on and on. It became difficult to track the days. The solitude was yet to have a lasting effect. The dead were more than enough company.

Echoes from outside the door. Her head lifted, more of an unthinking reaction than anything. Several times a day she tended to think she heard something. But aside from the surprisingly good MREs shoved through the slot, no one ever came. This time, however…

Footsteps, loud and heavy. Proper boots. The sound of a door being unlocked, the handle twitching before coming down. A large figure, male, human. Scars across a guileless face, chest muscles standing prominently from a tight white shirt. He didn't smile when he met Amelia's gaze, but she did not detect that same flash of hatred she had seen from the people who had arrested her. Perhaps he did not know.

"Lieutenant James Vega, ma'am." He did not salute. Amelia guessed she probably would not be getting the title of "Commander" back. "Been standing outside your door every other shift. Just got word someone wants to see you."

"I'll put on some shoes." It was such a mundane statement. _Hey, our world burned because of you. I'm your guard, I have to take you to a war tribunal. Oh, hang on, you need to put on some shoes._ Still, it needed to be done. People couldn't just wander around a military base in their socks. That was one of the first things they taught you.

Amelia laced up the shoes with all the enthusiasm she could muster. James Vega watched quietly from the door. Amelia's back cracked as she straightened. A shadow of pain settled somewhere in her lower back. _No. Definitely getting old._

"Ready?" Amelia nodded, and James Vega motioned for her to follow. The door slammed shut behind her.

"Were you with the Armada?" The words came unbidden. Maybe she actually had missed human contact. Vega did not slow down or even turn his neck when he answered.

"Yeah. I was with Coates on Tarsonis." He made it sound so casual. "Before that, rear guard duty on Braxis. You guys did a real number on that place."

 _Braxis._ The feel of alien snow crunching underfoot. Amelia had hoped she would get at least mentioned in a history book for being the first Earther to set foot on a foreign world. That fact was probably going to end up a footnote on a larger, far less complimentary entry now.

"Lucked out. Colonial assets provided a back-way in." The words came calm and clinical. _Duran, Duran, Duran. Who were you, Duran? Where do you walk now, you old, strange soul?_ His name was not on the list of dead.

"So I heard." Lieutenant Vega said nothing else. Men and women in uniform made way for his passing, many of them averting their gaze when it came to Amelia. Not all of them bore UED colors. The ones in aqua actually smiled at her passing. _Was that Umojans who wore aqua? Or Combine?_ Both wore blue, that was certain. _Has to be Umojans. They have a reason to be here._

As the tight hallway wound into a lobby area, the aquas and whites gave way to Dominion colors. Three banners hung on a wall behind the desk – Dominion, UED, and Protectorate – and the secretary gave Amelia a quiet smile when she saw her. It sent a small shiver of shame snaking down her body.

"Cleared already. He's waiting for you." The secretary looked at Amelia with big blue eyes. "Are you comfortable, ma'am?"

"I've had worse," croaked Amelia. The secretary seemed satisfied, although the next smile she offered was blighted by pity. "I could use a book. Or a jump rope."

"I will make the request." The secretary returned to the computer in front of her. Vega motioned for the elevator at the front of the lobby, which now opened. Amelia tried not to fixate on how tight the walls felt as she slipped in. The fact that James Vega took up about half of the elevator by himself did not help, even as he crammed himself into a corner.

Amelia tried to think of something else to say. James Vega busied himself by staring at the lights going by on the elevator door, marking each floor. _Shall I tell you about my day? I did a lot of pushups._ Judging by Vega's chest, however, Amelia doubted he would be terribly impressed. _I recounted the misaligned panels on the floor. The cracks on the ceiling. The number of times the air conditioning came on._

The elevator stopped. After a moment's pause, the doors opened. This time, Vega let Amelia take the lead.

Two hulking figures waited on either side of the door, their enormous aqua armor unfamiliar to Amelia by sight, if not by reputation. _Whew. Glad I never had to fight these guys._

The guns they carried in one arm looked bigger than her altogether. The combat shield they carried in the other left no doubt that it was bigger than her altogether. The marines kept their visors down, making it unclear if they were looking at Amelia or Lieutenant Vega.

"This is as far as I go. But I will be taking you back." Lieutenant Vega's mouth twitched, making his scars dance like drunken serpents. "Good luck."

"Thank you."

The Umojan marines started forward and Amelia followed, leaving the Lieutenant behind. All around her, UED officers and officials manned desks and computer screens, hurrying from place to place with glowing omnitools and hushed words. Only a few spared her any glances. But they were all bad. One of the Umojans hoisted his (her?) weapon meaningfully as a sweating man in a staff sergeant's uniform stood before them. His Adam's Apple bobbed once, then he kept going, back stiff.

"Stay close to us." A man's voice, heavily vocoded. Amelia nodded. They kept going.

Another two Umojan marines flanked a heavy set of double doors. Behind them stood a medic each, their red crosses replaced by Umojan insignias. _So begins the cannibalization of our tech. At least we had some good ideas._ The Umojans exchanged nods. The doors swung open.

Amelia knew what happened next. She strode through, not looking back. A large conference table glowed blue in front of a massive holoscreen, which flashed with images of some strangely familiar looking purple nebula. It shut off with a snap, however, when a tall figure turned to her.

"Shepard." Tall and austere, like DuGalle was. The same blue cap atop the head. A craggy face dusted with a gray goatee. A Fleet Admiral's bars on his chest. Fleet Admiral Steven Hackett looked at Amelia with an indiscernible expression, both severe about the mouth and soft about the eyes. The doors snapped shut with a hiss behind her.

"Fleet Admiral." Amelia shifted awkwardly where she stood before offering a hesitant salute. For a moment Hackett frowned, but the expression vanished as quickly as it came. He approached Amelia hesitantly, as if she were some sleeping animal. Amelia could not quite bare to make eye contact.

 _You were there when the protoss hit. You saw Earth burn._ Amelia's eyes watered slightly, more out of tension than anything. She kept her hand where it was.

"At ease." Amelia let the hand drop. Hackett heaved a deep breath, looking to the ceiling for a moment. "Before we begin, allow me to note that we did not isolate you as punishment. After the debacle, we weren't sure who we could trust with your guard duty, let alone sleeping in a room with you."

"Sir?" Amelia wanted clarification, wanted to know the damage. _Let me catalogue my actions. Let me know the exact ramifications of what I did. What I put my name to._

"You were isolated for your safety, Shepard. Everyone from the Sol System you meet from now on, every fellow Earther, odds are good they'll have at least one reason to kill you." Hackett paused for a moment. Shepard grasped what he prepared to say seconds before it came. "Three point two billion people dead, Shepard. The fires burned from New York to Rio de Janeiro. From green countryside in Europe to yellow Savannah in Africa, the protoss and turians picked their targets. Three point two billion are the initial estimates. I suspect they will increase over time. The refugee crisis will be … well."

Amelia nodded, staring at a point somewhere past Hackett's left shoulder. For a moment, silence lingered.

"You cannot be held fully responsible for this. The former Admiral Stukov committed a great many atrocities. The real tragedy is that he was stopped at such a late stage. That Admiral DuGalle fell before he could call you all home."

"But I am responsible." Amelia kept her voice steady, even if it sounded dry and cracked, like old parchment.

"You put your name to it, Amelia." Hackett's eyes crinkled. "It granted your message the legitimacy it needed for the DUAS to take it seriously … but it meant painting a target on your back."

"He had to be stopped, Admiral." The words, so hollow. "He had to be stopped."

"I think you will find that the people most familiar with Alexei Stukov's actions and behavior over the past few months will agree with you, Shepard. Myself among them." Hackett gestured to a small pile of folders sitting at the head of the table. "Reports, most of them Alenko's. One by Lieutenant Moreau. They laud you for your bravery. I still need one more." This time Amelia's gaze met Hackett's.

"Mine."

"Yours." Hackett shut his eyes for a moment. He put his hands behind his back, drawing his shoulders up. If Shepard didn't know any better, she would say he was steeling himself. "I need to know exactly what you did and why you did it, through your own words. I need to know about Duran. And if nothing else, I need to know how David Anderson died."

"I'll need something to write with." Amelia swallowed. "And some time."

"Granted." Hackett's brow furrowed. "I am also permitting you to have visitors, should you wish it. They will have been cleared several times over, and will carry nothing in with them. Again, should you wish it. The isolation was not a punishment."

"I would appreciate it. Sir." Amelia licked her lips. "So … Alenko and Joker…?"

"Alive. Well. And worried. They are on the list, I believe."

"And … Stukov?"

This time Hackett's face flickered with emotion, his fingers twitching while his teeth clenched. It was gone in a flash though, as brilliant and as fleeting as a bolt of lightning.

"In custody. In very secure custody."

Amelia nodded, and found she couldn't stop for several seconds. Her head spun. _Dead, soon. Hopefully._

There was one other thing. Something Amelia tried to really avoid thinking about.

"I haven't heard anything about Mars. Sir." She couldn't quite manage to make the important words come out. There were names she needed to say. She hoped Hackett got the drift.

"The protoss left Mars to the turians, Amelia. It is under martial law, at present. There has been some unrest." Amelia wasn't sure Hackett realized what she meant.

"My family, sir. Mom. Two sisters."

Hackett's eyes closed momentarily. _So he did forget._ Her stomach lurched as Hackett's expression became profoundly less happy.

"I … will look into them, Shepard. I give you my word that, when I have any news, it will be delivered immediately. They will also need protection. If it is any consolation, most of the public is not aware of your role in all this. To them, an alien fleet merely materialized in the skies one day and-"

"Please." Hackett stopped. Amelia opened her mouth again but nothing came out.

"We will find them, Shepard. You have my word." Hackett extended a weathered hand. Amelia shook it. "For now, rest. Write, when you can. And know that, whatever else may happen, the majority of the galaxy appreciates what you did. And of those who were left on Earth … some of us do understand." Hackett's hand squeezed, perhaps a shade tighter than it should have. Amelia winced as she withdrew her hand, which cracked once as the pressure released. _Old. Getting old._

"I will also send the first visitor down forthwith, should you accept. He has been very persistent. One Jack Harper, of Cerberus. You might know him as the Illusive Man."

 _Not who I was expecting._ Amelia nodded, struggling to think of a reason not to speak with him. Then she thought harder, and couldn't think of a reason _to_ speak with him, either. _Well. He can do all the talking._ Her head pounded. At least Mars hadn't been bombed.

"We'll talk again soon." Hackett walked to Amelia back to the door. "You won't be thrown to the wolves, Shepard, count on that. But I think it's safe to say you won't be coming back to the Sol System." _Ever._ Amelia stopped at the door, breath catching in her throat. _Well. What did you expect? You have three billion, two hundred million reasons to be barred from that space._

"I understand." Her lips made the words, but she didn't hear them. A whistle like a tea kettle built inside her ears. Hackett said something else, Amelia replied, but she heard none of it. The Umojans marched her to the elevator. Everywhere she looked, someone looked back and wondered how they could kill her.

Lieutenant Vega waited by the elevator. The first sound Amelia properly heard were his words.

"You okay?" Concern, from another member of the Armada. His eyebrows even almost met at the center of his jagged face.

"Yeah." Amelia leaned against the other side of the elevator. Vega folded his arms, his eyebrows shooting up in clear disbelief.

"Seems like it's story time. You ready?" Amelia stared at him, fists balling. _I bet I can hit harder than you'd expect._

"So I'm helping manage some SCVs shore up these weird radio towers they're making us set up, psi disrupters they're calling it, wondering when the hell we'll get back to camp so I can chat up some quarians, when Captain Tony comes running in, screaming we needed to stop construction immediately. Knew better than to ask why, so I put my shirt back on and rounded up the workers."

"Anyway, the captain's shaking and sweating, and I felt justified asking him what the hell was up. Turns out we'd been putting up psi emitters without knowing it – Alexei Stukov wanted insurance in case he wanted to wipe out the quarians. Us with it, you know. Acceptable tradeoff for killing an alien species I guess." James Vega grinned, scars contorting, neck tattoo stretching with the shifting muscles.

"Earth had fallen too, he said. But the only reason we were still alive that second was … because of you. And the flight lieutenant too, I guess. Only reason the quarians I had been talking to were still alive was because of you. What you did." Vega tilted his head.

"So, you know, thanks. Only family I had back on Earth was an uncle – hope he's okay. But the rest – thank you."

"Why are you telling me this?" Amelia felt bad for asking this almost immediately, but she had to hear it.

"To make sure you know that not everyone's gonna hate you. I got all my hate saved for that bastard excuse of a human being. You know who I'm talking about." Vega shrugged. "Don't know if that makes it easier, harder, don't care. You were gonna hear it anyway, sooner or later … Commander." The elevators stopped. Vega gestured to the opening exit. Amelia ignored it.

"Earth burned because of me."

"And how many planets burned because of _us?_ Or just Stukov on his own?" Vega shrugged irritably. "Fuck, I don't know, Commander. Maybe I just didn't have enough skin in the game to care. But I don't hate you for what you did."

"No more talking." Amelia left the elevator. Lieutenant Vega followed behind, blessedly silent.

Someone new waited by the door.

"You have clearance, or just bad judgment?" Vega shouldered his way past Amelia, pointedly putting himself between the two of them. "Hey!"

"I'm first on the waiting list." Jack Harper did not back up as Vega strutted up to him, chest flaring out. He craned his neck around one enormous shoulder to meet Amelia's gaze. "Hello, Shepard."

"He's cleared." Amelia pointed to the door. A fresh holoscreen now adorned it, a single name emblazoned in yellow on its front. **Jack Harper** , with the Fleet Admiral's signature below it. "I spoke to Admiral Hackett about it. You were fast, sir."

"Sir is unnecessary." Harper waved it off. He shot another annoyed look at Vega. "Do you mind?"

"Just shout if he pulls a knife or something." Vega opened the door and glared at Harper all the way in. Stepping into the room felt like being splashed with ice cold water, and it wasn't just the temperature change. _Back to the gray._

"What do you want me to call you, then?" asked Amelia, returning to her bed and sitting on it. The springs bounced at a jarring volume. Harper waited for the noise to abate and the door to shut behind them.

"Jack is fine. Mr. Harper if you wish to remain formal."

"All right, Mr. Harper." Amelia stared at him up and down. Colonial fashions still didn't quite sit right with her. It was clearly a dark suit, but it looked … spacefied? Like someone had looked at Earth fashions over the last few centuries and decided what would set it apart for the better was a weirdly high collar over a partially open chest. "What did you want?"

"To congratulate you, first and foremost." Amelia paled, a knot of eels twisting in her stomach. "I can see that made you upset. Well, there are any number of bars across Dominion, Combine, Protectorate, and even ITSA space that would drink to your name right now, to say nothing of the impression you made on the turians, the asari, the salarians…" Jack paused. "…the protoss."

 _It might have killed my family._ But Amelia did not say that. She merely stared at this man who presumed to come into her room and commend her for betraying her people.

"Furthermore, I have spoken to Valerian Mengsk. He seems to believe you were the one who freed him from his bonds on Korhal."

 _Say that louder, why don't you?_ Amelia let the anger creep into her eyes, but this only seemed to amuse Jack.

"You Directorate people … half of the time when you do something right, you act as if it were some unfortunate necessity or an unforgivable crime. Given recent events, I suspect you may have given the galaxy a fighting chance against what's coming."

That made Amelia's ears prick up, even through the dull droning that slowly filled her ears.

"Yes … I can see that interested you. As it should. I see the same sort of spirit in you as I do in Jim Raynor. That desire to shield others from pain. A kind of manic compassion." Jack looked away for a moment. "Ah … now I can see why the events of Earth affected you as it did. Especially as a medic."

"It would have affected anyone."

"True. I would know." A shadow passed over Jack's face. For a moment, Amelia something kindred in those eyes of his. "Humanity is in a precarious position, Shepard. Parts of the Dominion howl for Stukov's release, because he made them feel strong. The protoss are at loggerheads with the Umojan Protectorate, who betrayed them by harboring zerg. And the Directorate sit in the middle of it all, a planet burning, hated by the wider galaxy. Not undeservedly."

"Do you have a point to all this?" Amelia felt the edges of exhaustion creeping in. That meant sleep. That meant dreams.

"You will be needed, I think. Something has happened." Jack paused for a moment, looking back to the door. Then he shrugged. "I … can say nothing more for the moment, but I have spoken to Hackett. A smart man. A pragmatic man. And I think it is safe to say you will have a home among the army that will need to be built, and soon. Humanity will need someone to speak to the aliens, and the aliens will need someone they can trust."

"I don't know how much I have left to give, Mr. Harper." _And this sounds a bit like the raving of a madman._ "And I don't think anyone will be keen to place themselves in my care. My soldiering days are done."

"Soldiering, perhaps. But leadership is still direly needed. Clear judgment. And compassion, yes." Jack nodded down at her. "Spare some thought on it, when you have a chance. Your report will have to finish first, of course, but once that is done … would you object to saving more lives? Both human and alien?"

"I would never object." Not a second's hesitation. It actually took Harper aback, a little. Amelia could tell.

"Well, then. Good. Good." Harper clasped his hands. "I will see myself out. The good lieutenant will keep you apprised of your visitor's list, when he's not busy huffing testosterone. If and when you are freed, please … spare a thought for Cerberus." He knocked once at the door, which opened with nary a squeak. Then Amelia was alone again, left with nothing but the smell of an unfamiliar cologne, swiftly fading.

The watch beeped. That meant it was time for fifty pushups.

* * *

 **Next Chapter: UNKNOWN**


	3. Defiance

**Unknown**

The lungs contracting, stiff with uneasy use. The limbs frozen in place, muscles withered from the weight of what might have been centuries. One set of eyes opening but unseeing. The other set frozen shut, unfeeling and useless. The air comes out in ragged puffs that can be felt on the chin, but remains beyond all sight.

The fingers twitch. The mouth opens but not even a croak issues forth. A faint surge of panic from deep within the chest, followed by an even deeper exhaustion. How long has it been? Is it time? Tell me that it is all over, that the rebuilding might begin…

But there is nothing. Only pressure on all eyelids as the sleep sets in again. The mind's eye turns jagged and frantic; deep within me, something is screaming to wake up. The purpose can no longer be fully recalled. I wake in fits and starts, and it is scarcely different from the deepest sleep. At least when I dreamt, I could recall color and light. Sound. _Fire. Fire._ What I thought most of was flame.

The breaths became deeper, if only fractionally so. My fingers spasmed as life sluggishly flowed back into them, the muscles remembering what it was like to have strength. Once I awoke to see the needles press into them, the drug cocktail sent flowing through it. On two other occasions, I remained conscious to witness the shocks administered, felt the sharp stab of pain as the body was forcefully awoken.

How long did this go on for? The period of sleep grew shorter and shorter, until there came a time when the exhaustion did not set in. My mouth was sticky and dry, my stomach roiling, and I can only partially open the second set of eyes. But I could see. I could move. I could speak. A word leapt unbidden to my throat.

"Victory." A ridiculous concept. I remembered the hopelessness of it. Cut off from all hope. Friends and family dying one by one, or more often than not, all together. What victory could we have hoped for in the face of such utterly motiveless annihilation, when surrender went unaccepted, sacrifices changed nothing, and the most brilliant of our minds huddled alongside us in our shelters, devoid of answers, quivering in the face of oblivion?

"Victory!" It was not victory we craved for any longer. Past a point, even the strongest amongst those who remained admitted that our cause was hopeless. No avatar would ever be selected to embody that concept. When they died, it would have shattered what hope remained. But there were other aspects left to our people. Baser ones.

 _Vengeance._ Both sets of eyes opened, the light screaming into them. The plan had worked. I yet lived, hopefully among hundreds. My arms felt heavy, yet the weight no longer pinned me. The blue virtual interface on the surface of the cryo-pod still swam before me. Alive. Still alive.

"Victory!" But the VI did not answer. Likely enough, what little power remained was bent on fueling the surviving pods. That would make things harder, but it was hardly unprepared for.

An unsteady hand flattened against the top of the pod. Grunting, I curled the fingers into a fist. It felt as if someone had shoved small metal files between each joint, cutting into them as I brought my fingers inward. I felt disappointment as blood failed to fall through my knuckles. I punched the interface, hard. It turned red, a progress wheel flaring into my vision, a blurring line caressing its edges at high speed. It faded, and the pod hissed.

What did I expect? Light? Darkness opened into further darkness, softened only by a meager orange glow. I placed my hands on either edge of the cryo pod. I pulled.

My joints screamed in pain. My muscles, long dormant, protested mightily at this sudden exertion. I opened my mouth and let a dull whistle of pain shoot out of it, but I smiled nevertheless. My torso rose. The pain reminded me I was alive. The struggle reminded me I was strong. I slammed my upper body against the side of the pod, tilted my weight as far as it would go. With a muffled thud, I fell over the side and on to the floor.

Dust kicked up at my impact. My side groaned with discomfort as the hard surface slammed into it. One leg remained latched to the pod above, the instep hooked on to it. I found myself unable to shift the blasted thing, but it only made me laugh. _Can any of you see me? Your Avatar of Vengeance?_

The silence persisted. The darkness remained. The only thing I could hear were the short gasps of breath I made, some in pain, some in exertion, most in joy. I lived. We had succeeded. The Reapers came and left, yet here I stood – in a manner of speaking – an intact remnant of the species they had sought to exterminate. All around me, the pods remained, latched to the walls, bolted to the floors…

I lay there in the dust and the silence, breaths coming ragged but deep. My lungs purged themselves of frost. The blood quickened with every passing moment. I focused on my ears, straining to listen for the telltale scrabbling, of whispers coming from any pod. There was nothing. Again, not unexpected. I was always to be the vanguard, the first awoken from the deep sleep. And the sounds would be faint, regardless. Nevertheless, the atmosphere remained ominous, as if I had somehow disturbed the tombs of one of our ancestors, buried on a far distant world…

No, no tomb. My left fist curled, the mere act of bringing the fingers together making my wrist shake with exertion. We lived. The Empire survived. And we would bring forth such a flame…

One hand crept forward, dragging my body from the pod. Another. My foot slid from its mooring and came thudding to the floor, sending a dull rush of pain through toe and knee. Dust leapt and danced at the passage of this man who thought himself a worm, dragging himself on his belly through the earth…

The closest pod, sealed and motionless, affixed to the wall. I pulled myself forward, my lips dragged upwards as if by hooks, a grin halfway between endless mirth and a death's grimace. I could not stand. I could barely move. But soon I would command an army. Was it petty to hope that I would bear the cryogenic sickness better than the rest of them? That my pitiful state be considered a grand accomplishment?

"Victory!" One last try, but still the VI did not respond. I had not expected it to. It would still make things more difficult.

Open one pod, find one more pair of hands to make use of. They could open two pods, and from there, four pods, and it would go on and on until all survivors gathered proudly in the dark, limbs gradually unstiffening, finding their old strength.

I planted a hand firmly atop the pod, searching for the screen with fingers that barely remembered how to bend. The seconds wore on. I rapped my digits first against metal, then finally against the glass of a screen. The pod hissed and fell open. A figure, arms crossed, standing tall from within. With a sickening slowness, it leaned forward. I rolled with a muffled grunt, and the soldier fell full-force to the floor.

Guilt and despondence set in immediately. Had I concussed him, the first soldier of the New Empire? Had I – no, it did not bear thinking about. We would laugh about it, in time. Once the first ships were readied, and the doctors remembered once more how to grip their instruments. I crept forward, croaking a query.

He did not stir. Crimson armor clung to a decrepit frame. I reached forward, finding the shoulder plate, turning him over, wondering the extent of the cryogenic sickness.

A desiccated face, the skin pulled back, pinched, and mummified, rolled to face me. No trace of frost. Any sign of life extinguished in the dark of four long-empty sockets. Of all things, the teeth remained in the best condition, fiercely white in that visage of decay. My own heart lurched into life.

"No…" An ill omen. The first soldier awoken … long dead. I could not draw either of my lower eyes away from his face, somehow accusing despite all life having long been drained from it. My upper eyes scanned the rest of the room, the other dimly lit pods, wondering how many of them contained withered corpses…

"All of them…" A whisper, a thought nibbling at the edge of his mind. Had he spoken aloud? His voice could raise barely above the feeblest of croaks, yet he still recognized his own words. Those had not been his own words. "You are the last…"

No. Whether it was the early manifestations of some derangement or some Reaper-borne phantasm sent to haunt him, the Avatar of Vengeance would overcome. With a cry, he crept forward on hands and knees, stronger this time, reaching for the next pod.

It opened with a hiss. A figure clad in still resplendent armor, a soldier of the empire. It teetered for a moment against the wall, then it fell forward.

When it struck the floor, the figure shattered, sending a shower of black shards in every direction. A revolting smell of must and rot sprayed everywhere. My fingers scratched against the floor, the flesh covered in a thin layer of dust and … whoever the soldier had been.

"All of them. You are alone."

No. It could not be accepted. Turning all eyes away from the broken remnant of a man I might once have known, I drew myself to my knees once more. Heart pounding, I tensed my arms and legs, pushed downward with all my might.

I stood. Against all odds, against all the Reaper's calculations, I stood.

"The last prothean. Alone. With us."

What was this, this voice that gurgled and croaked? My own lips had not moved in some minutes. I peered into the darkness, seeking any source of movement, ears straining for the muffled pounding of hands on the inside of pods…

Nothing. Only the sound of my own breathing, ragged and halting. I looked down at my own feet. My knees shook with the effort of standing. I let myself slump ever so slightly. I would slouch to the next pod, to all pods if necessary.

The first step was the hardest thing I could remember doing. The second was even harder. Yet the knees did not bend without my direction. Each step hit the floor like a thunderclap. I walked. The first prothean to awaken walked to the third pod, this one bolted to the floor. My hands slammed against the pod's side, harder than I intended, my palms aching at the impact. My chest heaved. With an appalling weakness, I reached for the pod's lock.

A blast of foulness as the pod slid open. A fungus, black and congealing, wrapped around and spreading from a now unseen body. My hands almost slipped into it, and I lurched back with a speed previously forgotten. The fall came hard, but the pain remained unbidden. All I could see were the reaching tendrils of the coiling fungus, still and yet somehow threatening.

The breathing slowed, each intake of air becoming a ragged gasp. Moisture crept into all four eyes. I stared from one pod to the next, all three that I had opened: a soldier fallen, a soldier shattered, a soldier … consumed.

The next breath came as a shrill whistle, just as quickly forced out of my lungs as the pressure on my chest mounted. _How many? How many still stand? How many pods have failed?_

"All of them. The last prothean. Alone."

 _With you._ How many pods would I open only to find black despair staring me back? How many years had sped by while we slept? Had … had the extinction truly wound on for so long that even the VI had died, prioritizing the Avatar's survival over its own?

And what was this voice, that spoke into the darkness?

"Up."

I looked forward. In the distance, the door leading back to the surface opened of its own accord, but jerkily, as if pulled by unseen strings. The pods remained silent. Only a handful of lights still dotted the facility.

 _Breathe._ I stepped forward, moving from pod to pod on my way to the exit, opening each.

More fungus. A few still figures, only a handful with frost clinging to them. _The last prothean. Alone._

Eventually, the pods gave way to open floor. My stride remained closer to a limp than a proud march, but on I went, heart beating slow and heavy. _Dead and gone. All of them._

 _Why not me?_

My metal combat boots clanked against the floor. I passed the elevator – I did not need to check to know it was non-functional. The panel controlling it remained dark. The VI that directed it remained silent. The prothean that would have used it remained undeterred. The limp turned to a march. _What remains? What can I still use?_

 _At least I will see the sun again, before the end._

A ramp felt beyond me, let alone a staircase. Yet a ramp greeted me before long, accompanied by a long and thick rail affixed to the concrete. The passageway wound up and up, out of sight, one in six emergency lights still lit up beneath the rail.

The first step was the hardest. But what I left behind could not possibly be worse than what lay ahead.

Was this all a dream? Some dark and fevered nightmare about what was to become of us before waking for true? Was it, perhaps, a lingering after-effect of some undiscovered indoctrination? It would explain the voices.

It did not matter. None of it mattered. All that mattered was putting one foot in front of the other, feeling heat and strength returning to my limbs. _Focus on the present moment. The sensation of firm ground beneath your feet._

Socketless eyes stared back from his mind. His nostrils could still detect traces of opportunistic mold. At least the voices, whatever they were, remained silent.

The passageway wound on and on, the functional lights becoming more sporadic. So often I found myself totally unable to see ahead of me that I could almost convince myself I was already dead, the deoxygenated brain struggling to make sense of the last sensations still plaguing it, interpreting the final moments as a lingering rotten stench, the sensation of stepping on concrete, the image of a prothean skull…

But the madness always passed. The light always returned. Whatever doubts I felt became supplanted by the current objective. It was how we survived the war for so long.

 _The Empire has fallen? But this planet has not. And it will not._

 _The planet has fallen? But this city still stands! And it will not fall. It cannot._

 _The city is taken? This street is ours, and we will not surrender!_

 _And on and on and on and on and on … until we fight for the square patch of earth in front of us. For the space around us._

I fought for it now.

The passageway terminated in radiance, a great blazing confluence of emergency lights still functioning. A grand metal door stood before me, tall and immaculate, three times wider than I was. My hands pressed against, feeling the reassuring coolness of the metal.

A simple manual code lock remained. I had hoped Victory would be the one to open the path to freedom … well, I had hoped that the elevator would carry us into the light. But here I stood. Alone. Bereft even of the VI.

Eight-digit code. It sprang to mind with only a moment's prodding. The breathing slowed as I tapped each number with a shaking finger, cursing as I almost slipped and hit the wrong number.

The door trembled as the last number was entered. With a grind and a groan, the clamps released. I seized the handle with failing strength and pulled.

The sound of wind. The scent of grass. I could taste it even as the first of the light streamed in, before I laid eyes on anything beyond it. Our world, bereft of smoke and fire, still graced with its natural beauty. The door swung open with a final scream of rusted metal. I stood before the light, shadow stretched long behind me.

They stared back up at me, many eyes fixed on my solitary figure. They had waited so long…

The last prothean. Alone with _them._

Saren tore himself away from the vision with a grimace, his own heart racing, his own lung struggling with a weakness that was not fully his own. The innocent-looking crystal shard hovered on the table, floating serenely next to several others, what the beast called his collection.

 _Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?_ That was the impression Saren was getting. _"These will facilitate understanding." Yet another madman with a sob story._

Of course, that did help Saren understand. A little. Why the beast thought he, of all people, would be receptive to a glorified VR experience remained beyond him. But most alien perspectives remained beyond his grasp. _Just put a gun in my hands. Let me fight my enemy._ And right now, Saren knew who the enemy was.

He waited outside the door, floating above the ground while vibrant red energy bled from his eyes. He wandered about in water-clogged power armor, barking nonsense at terrified civilians.

And he stood up in the Citadel, contemplating how to bring the galaxy to his knees. Unlike the UED, Saren put good odds on this bastard actually succeeding.

 _He mass recalled the Citadel._

Had the Primarch ever come up with a contingency for that? They knew the protoss were capable of such nonsense. But had the idea ever been brought up in some meeting? Would the fleets be ready for this assault, whatever form it took? He did not know. It made his spine tingle, and his blood pump a little faster through his veins. _I hope you got out, Sarah. I really do._

The suite Saren remained imprisoned in could not be faulted for lack of luxury. It overlooked the Presidium, in all its current blasted glory, the water still running flawlessly alongside the overhead simulation of a clear sky. A large feather bed, probably designed for an asari, made up the bulk of the room, currently sans sheets due to a particularly ill-fated attempt to escape out the window. Alas, this was no Mar Sara. The protoss that shunted him back inside with his mind had looked at Saren as if he were insane.

The extranet port remained inactive, probably disconnected due to them being well out of range of the nearest comm buoy, as well as the Citadel's current state of utter disarray. A phone only offered a series of beeps followed by an apology that the lines were down. A small kitchen area offered a sink with still functioning running water, as well as a stove and oven that could still cook.

A dining room adjoined the kitchen area, a blooming potted plant sitting amidst a small sea of rather fancy-looking placemats and a single empty water jug, made of crystal. Currently an unfinished dextro meal sat in an unappetizing heap upon a single unwashed plate rimmed by leafy blue patterning. Saren had not wanted for food since his imprisonment. Only freedom.

The door remained locked. A protoss waited on the other side.

A bathroom decorated in gold fixtures completed the decadence. The water still ran in there as well, but Saren no longer entertained the idea of a shower. The towels all now dangled outside his window, taunting him with their inaccessibility.

Saren looked to the collection of memories sat upon the desk. The room did not lack for a clock. He knew exactly fourteen hours had passed since the beast last visited and deposited this great heap of stones. _And the bastard said we would speak again soon. Perhaps then we will learn how a prothean dies…_

"Hard," came a deep voice, muffled from the other side of the door. Saren looked up as it slid aside. "With eyes wide open."

They stared at each other, appraising one another as warriors. Saren did not feel uncomfortable thinking of this thing as a warrior, however much his fingers might twitch and his eyes might narrow upon seeing him. The red armor that adorned this beast looked of fine make, if excessively ornate for actual battle. The red mixed with lines of yellow, and the central plates came together in a manner more like a series of leaves than riveted plate he was used to seeing. His arms revealed some of the underarmor where the metal gave way, and that at least looked familiar; some kind of weave or mesh designed to protect the limbs from minor shrapnel or burns while also maintaining flexibility.

Most of what Saren could see of the prothean was the head and face. It resembled some kind of mushroom, the flesh leathery and brown at the scalp, maybe like a vorcha's, while it became lighter and smoother below the eyes and around the jaw, like a krogan. Two strange lines ran into his lips from either side, while another went up through his chin, almost resembling wires like on a geth. Armored boots covered feet with only two widely spaced toes. That part, at least reminded Saren of his own species. _The protheans have a little bit of all of us in them, it seems._

And he had four eyes, like a batarian. _And they're bastards like the batarians, as well._ Unlike batarians the prothean's eyes ran back diagonally, each possessing two black pupils. All of these pupils currently centered on Saren. _Alone. With the last prothean. Ha. Ha. Ha._ The beast's leathery face, already none-too-happy in appearance, deepened its frown.

"You already mock my memories. Pitiful. I can see you did not progress all the way through it."

"Another telepath." Just as Saren suspected. He summoned the old safeguards, focused on the burning impulse to smash this smug interloper's skull into the Presidium grounds below. It wouldn't be of much help, assuming this prothean was competent with his psionics, but…

"No. It is of no help." The prothean watched Saren's every movement with something resembling fascination. "A worthy effort, nonetheless. I always respect gestures of defiance, regardless of strength. That is why I will understand if you refuse to come with me."

"To my execution?" Saren refused to blink. The prothean stared back at him. None of his four eyes so much as twitched.

"To dinner. I would like to speak with you." One of the prothean's eyes, the upper right one, swiveled to behind Saren. To the window, where the towels and blankets fluttered in the simulated breeze. "It will give us some time to recover your possessions."

Saren narrowed his eyes. _Dinner. Are you going to feed me roast turian, or some other contrived sadistic nonsense?_

"We will discuss the galaxy. Our roles within it." If the prothean took offense, he did not show it. Truth be told he always looked angry, the lips turned downward while the eyes stared onward with a burning hatred. Nevertheless, Saren sensed he would be able to tell when the beast lost its temper. "You are free to refuse, but it will be some time before I can return to speak to you."

Saren's head cocked slightly, partially involuntarily. What path would they take? Where would they go? There were any number of escape avenues, sudden drops, old hidden Spectre caches…

"Ah. Thank you, we had missed that one." Saren opened his mouth to retort, but it was pointless. He could no more hide his thoughts from this devil than from a protoss. "Indeed. I would suggest against attempts on my life. The Tal'Darim would not take it well."

"A dinner." This did actually remind him of Mar Sara, a little. First contact all over again, where the alien seemed keener on trying to make him drink coffee than extract any secrets from his brain. _Whereas Victus was strapped to an operating table … and look who we allied with!_ Old memories, boiling to the forefront. His teeth clenched.

Would history repeat? Did it fucking matter?

"Fine. Dinner." At the very least it would give Saren a better idea of the state of the Citadel. He noted the beast's slight smirk as he thought this. _Well. Whatever he would let me see._ "If you're going to do that the whole time, I'll tell you the same thing I told Kerrigan: I'm just going to stop bothering to open my mouth."

"Do as you will." The beast turned on an armored boot and waved with a three-fingered gauntlet. "But do follow."

 _Well. I am used to that._ Saren took one last glance at the sumptuous room, complete with the remnants of a foiled escape attempt, before sighing and proceeding onward, refusing to even pay the strange red-eyed protoss any regard as he passed him by.

"Tal'Darim." The prothean spoke the word casually, yet Saren detected a warning buried in there, somewhere. "There are Khalai – what you know as High Templar. Nerazim – the Dark Templar. And then there are the Tal'Darim. The Forged." The corridor terminated at a glass elevator. Through it, Saren could see a long stretch of the Presidium. Tal'Darim casually floated throughout the expanse, most staring at Saren and the prothean as they stopped at the entrance.

"And what," said Saren, a thrill of tension running through his body at the sight, "what precisely are these "Forged" going to do?"

"Fight." The prothean shrugged, a curiously human gesture, the armor on his shoulders stretching the shrug to almost comical heights. "Win. They care little for the other protoss. Or any other races, truly. They believe themselves strongest. Besting the Reapers will be their means of proving it." The elevator slid into place and opened with a hiss. Cheerful music issued from within. "You will understand, in time. Should you choose to peruse my memories."

Well. It wasn't as if there was much else to do.

They stood in the elevator together, a turian and a prothean. Was it the set up for some kind of joke? Saren couldn't think of any. Kept getting distracted by visions of throttling the madman, finding the weaknesses in his armor and putting him down like the animal he was…

"You are wondering how to kill a prothean." The beast looked him over without any emotion beyond the standard frown. Slowly, he pointed a single lengthy finger to the left side of his chest.

"The heart, here." Then he drew it up, aimed it at the temple as if miming a pistol. "The head, here. Not unlike most species. I am sure there are arteries and other physiological weaknesses found throughout my body, but I am no surgeon. If they exist, the knowledge is long lost with the rest of my species." He removed his finger, only to sweep both hands across his chest. His whole body flushed a vibrant green.

"But of course, I am wearing barriers, reinforced with my own biotic ability. As a biotic yourself, I am sure you understand what effort it would take to break through."

"Nothing a warp wouldn't fix." Saren daren't move, even as his limbs twitched with the suppressed impulse to demonstrate. He still had his implants. Even without a gun, it was not as if he was helpless.

"You would need quite the warp. And you would need to take me by surprise." The prothean looked to the doors as the elevator slowed. "Nothing surprises me anymore." _We'll see._

"I can see quite well, too. Four eyes … like a batarian's, as you noted."

The doors opened. The Citadel Tower waited for them, its previously muted purples now exchanged for some dim but hellish ruby red. Hanar dotted the balconies above where politicians had previously plied their trade, looking down on them while their bioluminescence flickered. _They're talking._

The plants of the Tower no longer remained, but neither did the carnage Saren had borne witness to last time. Keepers still strolled up and down the stairs and across the landings without any apparent care in the world. A handful of drell in light teal armor, carrying long rifles, waited at each landing, nodding to the prothean as the two of them passed. Of the "hybrid" or Tal'Darim, Saren could see nothing.

At the top of the staircase where the Council once rendered judgment, now a lengthy dining table waited, its surface festooned with plates piled high with all manner of fruits, meat, and cheeses. Above if flickered a hologram of what looked like a star system, complete with mass relay. Saren could not readily identify which it might have been.

Behind it, also unfamiliar, a great metal statue stood with arms outstretched, the figure armored and enormous. _Three fingers._ Saren looked down. _Two toes._

"Not my idea. The hanar's." The prothean paid the statue little mind, only bade Saren be seated while he took the opposite end of the table. "They have declared this site sacred. To me, it is little more than a command center."

"Sacred." Saren sat, hands resting on his lap. The chair back did not reach too far up his own. _Probably made for a salarian. Or an asari._ He planted his feet on the ground and stared up and over at the prothean. "Do they mind the fact you're having dinner in your … command center?"

"It is just for this once. I wanted to talk. And show you something." The prothean reached for a flute containing a small amount of red liquid. He drained it in a single motion. "For them, that is the main event. The true start of the war."

"I would say the war has already started." Saren spared a glance out the window. The purples of the Serpent Nebula were gone. What greeted his eyes was nothing less than a massive red giant, which filled the dark spaces with dull ruby light. "You stole the Citadel."

"An unfortunate necessity." The prothean clasped his hands together. Two of his upper eyes shut momentarily, as if he were offering a brief prayer. "But no one aboard this station is my enemy. The real enemy is the one you saw me conversing with. Harbinger. They are coming now."

"Yeah. Thanks for that." Saren eyed a plate on which a green jello quivered. _Not touching anything until I know it's dextro._

"Everything on your side is dextro." The prothean, procuring fork and knife, plate and bread. "Eat, if you will. Ask questions, if you must. Otherwise, I will speak."

Saren opened his mouth before shutting it, thinking. No hunger roiled in his belly. One of his own fingers tapped against the table.

"You said you were Duran, before?"

"Yes." The prothean cut a sausage into pieces, one sawing motion after another. "Lieutenant Samir Duran. I wore other faces as well, when necessary. I am … the perfect infiltrator, one might say. Capable of turning invisible, changing faces … understanding new languages with a touch…"

"Really." _Great. The mind powers of an asari, now?_ Saren stared stonily over the dishes. The prothean took delicate bites.

"Yes. The Touch, we called it. Part of the prothean inheritance. Understanding of cultures, mindset, and languages with simple contact. When I met the UED upon Braxis, one of the first things I did was shake their hands." The prothean paused. "Would that I had shaken Stukov's. I would have understood immediately what I was dealing with."

"You always did befuddle Kerrigan and Nova." Saren noted the small smile at this. "They could not understand how you infiltrated Umojan space so readily when they had such difficulty."

"Now you know." The small smile grew a little wider. "I am a millenia-old shapeshifter. Can anyone say they are prepared for that answer?"

"No. I suppose not." Saren remained silent for a few moments. The prothean turned its attention to the food, exposing pointed teeth. "Did you find Kerrigan?"

The prothean paused, finishing the sausage. The smile turned back to a more natural looking frown.

"No. We suspect she escaped the station." _Good._ "Yes, I suppose you can be proud of that. Things would be much easier if the rogue psionic elements were under my control. As it stands, both she and the zerg will need to be dealt with."

"Zerg?" Saren cocked his head, images flashing behind his eyes. He felt for his false arm, for the metal that replaced flesh lost on Thessia. A great livid eye stared back at him through memory. But the prothean only waved it off.

"None of your concern. It is a matter for my hybrid to reckon with." The beast wiped his mouth with a lilac embroidered napkin. "When you peruse my memories, you will fully understand my frustration over what happened in the Great War … or rather, that it happened at all."

"Well, you're hardly alone in that." Saren clenched and unclenched the metal fist at the end of his false arm. _And this was not the only thing I lost._ He looked up at the prothean, who stared back while ladling a spoonful of soup into his mouth. "So, Avatar, what precisely are you trying to do here? And what do you want from me?"

"A good question. To the point." The prothean sighed and carefully placed his utensils back down. The frown deepened once more. "I am going to kill the Reapers. Every last one of them. Do you understand this sentiment? Appreciate it?"

"Of course." Saren did not blink. He watched the prothean's every weary movement, every flicker of his four sets of eyes. "Their extinction would be ideal."

"And how far would you go to do that?" asked the prothean. Saren opened his mouth to answer, only to be cut off. "I know you would say you would go to any length. As you said, you do not need to bother opening your mouth. But do you _believe_ it, in that heart of yours? When presented with the opportunity to strike the killing blow, but at considerable cost, will you hesitate this time?"

 _This time._ He could still remember the dew clinging to the leaves on Tarsonis as he set the device. It was dark and damp, yet it smelled alive. Fresh. _Remember it. The price of winning that stage of the war._

"I know you have … regrets." The prothean's words echoed both through the room and Saren's mind, despite his gritted teeth, despite the ring of steel he tried to place around his thoughts. "Things did not turn out as you planned. Both of us will be remembered as villains, I think, for what we must do. But at least there will be people around to remember us. That makes it all worth it, does it not?"

"Let historians judge us." Saren pressed his hands against the table, letting the fingers clamp against the edge. The metal groaned as Saren's false hand tightened its grip. "I know what I did. I know the cost. And I would do it again even so."

"Hmm." The prothean remained very still, eyes burning into Saren. He released his grip on the edge, making the table creak again. Neither of them spoke. Hanar glittered above like bulbous stars.

"Was that all-" Saren stopped as the hologram in the center of the table flashed a deep red. The silhouettes of … ships? Seven of them, homing in on the planet while another made for the relay. The hanar's flashing became frenzied, like a multitude of journalist cameras when a protoss walked by. When Saren looked to the prothean again, he found the creature's face wreathed in wrath.

"Here they are. Slightly ahead of what I expected." The prothean stood, the hologram's light sending his features into shadow. His teeth still gleamed in the darkness. "Can you see them, Saren? Clearly? Some are larger than others. Destroyers and … capital vessels."

Two more emerged from the edges of the holographic display. Some were indeed larger than others, their hollow red frames reminiscent of the ship that had burned in the protoss's flames so many years ago. The others possessed the same insect-like crested hull, but condensed into a smaller frame. These flew together in groups of three where the larger specimens flew alone.

"This is a batarian system: Bahak. The second planet is the inhabited Aratoht." The prothean watched the display with rapt attention, his voice steady but … burning. "They will attempt to access the Alpha Relay. From there, they will be able to jump to any system. The Reapers will be granted a sizable tactical advantage."

"And we're just going to watch?" Several of the gleaming crimson ships bore for the surface of Aratoht, disappearing with a shimmer as they reached the planet. The others still approached the mass relay.

"Are we?" Two of the prothean's eyes slid down to meet Saren's gaze. "Well … that depends. At last count, there were over three-hundred thousand inhabitants, mostly batarian, on the surface of Aratoht."

"Gone now." Saren stared up at the planet. "Especially if this is their entry point. How many Reapers are there?"

The prothean glanced sharply to Saren after he said this. "Unknown."

"So, they are dead, then. Behind enemy lines and completely unextractable." Saren's insides felt hollow as he said this. _Because it's easy. I've done it before._ He looked at the mass relay. The diagram display indicated the Reapers were only seconds out from it. More shimmered into existence on the edge of the map closest to him, the ships appearing before his eyes and drifting serenely towards the planet and relay. "But … you knew they would come."

"Evacuation efforts would have meant warning the enemy I knew what they would do." The prothean's voice remained even, perhaps slightly complacent. A stab of hate ran through Saren as he looked to the prothean, his eyes half-fixed on the relay, half on Saren. "Then they would strike from somewhere else. You can see how that might have been a disadvantage."

"Three-hundred thousand deaths on your hands then. On top of the Citadel."

"Yes." _Well at least he does not deny it._ The prothean chuckled at this. "Deny it? Saren, this war will not be won on heroism. It will be won when people realize victory is a matter of how many people we are willing to sacrifice, for how much, and for how long. Three-hundred thousand lives for…" The prothean's upmost eyes scanned the holographic display. "…twenty-two Reapers. A fair bargain." Saren glanced at the display.

The Reapers clustered atop the relay, which remained entirely inactive. For one mad moment, Saren wondered if they would call their equivalent of technical support.

"Do not think of them like that, like sapients," snapped the prothean. "They are machines masquerading as gods. They only now realize I have cut off the relay from the network, that I knew what their secondary plan was. Savor it, Arterius. Watch as they realize they are not omnipotent." The prothean's teeth gleamed in the dark. The hanar flashed brightly above.

"So you've locked them in." There was something curiously perverse about watching those red wriggling limbs overlap over each other and the relay. "Now what?"

"Have you ever wondered whether relays can be destroyed?" Saren glanced sharply at the prothean, whose smile widened into a gleaming array of pointed white fangs, unnerving to witness. "Would you like to see?" He produced a small device, a metal casing around a shivering purple crystal. A red button adorned its center. "…would you like to-"

"Don't foist the responsibility for these deaths on me," said Saren. He folded his arms, shivering at how cold the false one felt against his chest all of a sudden. "They are already dead, since you decided these Reapers were worth their lives. Yes, given the circumstances, better for the system to burn in the detonation of a mass relay than suffer whatever they have planned. But it's your plan. Your bomb. Your responsibility. Stop the theatrics. Make an end."

The hanar stopped flashing. Saren kept his eyes on the beast for a moment before catching movement on his right. Instinct took over and he turned sharply, just for a moment.

Hundreds of figures hung silent and still in the Tower. Protoss, some of them, black robes billowing behind them as they stared down at the exchange. Others … it was hard to see. Or describe. Many were massive, twice the length of the protoss who floated alongside them. Some bore four legs. Others six. Many possessed ridged skulls or a set of slavering mandibles, and the eyes glowed orange and red and yellow.

Others glowed blue. Protoss's eyes atop a zerg's face. _The hybrid._ They all watched, looking not to the prothean, but to Saren. _Are they…?_

"I appreciate all acts of defiance. No matter how small."

The detonator clicked once. Saren swung his head back to the holographic display, just in time to see the image flicker. The prothean did not smile now. For a moment, his shadow loomed larger than anything else in the room, framed by the light of a star system about to die.

The relay blossomed into distorted orange. The crimson faded before the simulated blast, swiftly consumed by a spreading tidal wave of destruction. An outer planet flickered and faded before the onslaught, swiftly forgotten as the energy carried forwards.

Another planet. Another.

The screen flickered crazily now; however exactly the prothean monitored the situation, it was likely soon to be consumed. With a final tremble, the screen went dark as soon as the wave crested over Aratoht, fading into black with a crackle of static.

The room went dark. Only the hanar, high above, illuminated it in flashes of bright purple and blue. _Gone. Three-hundred thousand people. I imagine they had just enough time to scream._

"But not enough to feel pain." The prothean shut his eyes for a moment, lips moving silently. Still, a hundred floating figures watched on in silence. For a few lingering seconds, the prothean's eyes remained shut. Then they opened once more, and he looked to Saren.

"You are the kind of man we will need in the coming war. Believe me when I say that idealism will have no place in what comes next. We must see things as they are."

 _You're a madman who should have died long ago, but insists on haunting us. Already the death toll climbs exponentially._

Somewhere on the edge of the galaxy, a star system burned. Outside that immense ring of fire, countless eyes looked onward in cold astonishment as they realized the first blow had been struck against them.

"We know what comes next, Saren."

 _Retaliation._

* * *

 **Next Chapter: Liara**


	4. The New Swarm

**Liara**

A cool wind blew in from the east, carrying with it the smell of rain. Thunderclouds peppered a damaged horizon, sending muffled booms across the empty territories. Liara took a deep breath in and smelt the ashes.

Thessia no longer burned, no longer even smoldered. Green plants swayed in the breeze, their roots planted through the old foundations of buildings. Fossils of the Great War poked through the ground, overrun by moss and vines. Here, a terran siege tank, the Protectorate's emblem still barely visible on its side. There, a turian Jiris IFV, its days of hovering long forgotten as it moldered in the dirt.

Crunching underfoot, bones. Bones of asari and batarians. Terrans and turians. And yes, zerg. Plenty of zerg.

The rachni queen trilled softly as she looked over the emptiness of forgotten carnage. Her warriors trailed behind her singing songs of their own; a dirge for the long departed. Straight ahead from where they stood, through the trees and the ruin and the creep, a vast darkened silhouette loomed, many-tentacled yet stiff. The skies around it hummed with activity, dark specks obscuring chunks of the gray clouds hanging overhead. The last enemy of the last war. The god that had almost swallowed the galaxy.

The vast purple form of Abathur oozed up beside Liara, eyes burning with recognition. She could sense a wave of something altogether foreign coming from him. Nostalgia. And grief. She was so used to disgust and contempt.

"Bad place." As always, Abathur kept his speech far from poetic. "Hope of galaxy died here."

"The galaxy's hopes were rekindled here." Liara looked down from the Overmind's carcass and towards the mangled treeline. She reached out with her thoughts. Zerg lurked beneath the soil, above it, and in the trees. They watched their procession from a distance, waiting. Once, controlling all of them would have been beyond Liara's control or desire.

Now she felt the need. Now she possessed the means. The Zerg Exclusion Zone contained an army. She intended to recruit.

"Intend to walk down there?" Abathur quivered. Another new emotion for him. Fear. "Bad place. Resting place of god."

"Not my god." Liara looked down to the rachni queen, who stared back with unblinking eyes. "I will be relaying control through you. I will need another royal brood soon."

The queen trilled in agreement. The new leviathan already possessed a dedicated hatchery for her people, one that would expand over time. The zerg and rachni swarms would be united in this coming age. Two peoples thought extinct, coming together to defend the galaxy. Liara folded her arms and looked to the slope before her.

She took her first step. Then another.

Behind her, the silhouettes of her zerg and rachni stood out against the moon, lonely sentinels watching their queen enter the mouth of madness. Liara braced herself and began to march, alone, leaving the comfort of her army behind. The wind now carried a foul stench – that of a decomposing god. The ruined hull of a carrier gleamed gold as she passed it, only to fade just as quickly.

Wild zerg felt the vibrations of her feet as she passed over them, but did not stir. She reached out, felt for their minds and co-opted them as easily as a mother picked up her child. Her thoughts plucked them from the earth, and they shook the soil loose from their carapaces, silent as she trod onwards. The smaller breeds, the zerglings and drones, did not like to approach the Overmind. Its destroyed form periodically still sent out waves of psionic pain, an echo of its final moments. And there was something that made its home there, something large and ravenous. _A worthy warrior for the Swarm Resurgent._

If it had a name, the zerg no longer knew it. It decorated itself in the armor of long dead templar, in the shells of tanks it had destroyed personally on the day the galaxy fought for Thessia. A nydus worm, perhaps, of a thresher maw strain. Bones of countless dead lay strewn about its lair inside the Overmind.

Liara pressed onward. Zerg rose from the soil and bound back for the hill, to the waiting arms of their new rachni overseers. It became more difficult to reach out, now, and more difficult to move. It was if the air thickened and became semi-solid. Like the gravity increased the closer Liara strode to the corpse. In the distance, she thought she caught the flash of an eye, large and luminous. But it was only the memory of a one-eyed hydralisk, tilting its head to watch her go past.

The specks of flying zerg in the distance became winged shadows on the shattered earth. The soil and grass gave way to scaly creep. Liara stopped at this, her feet clicking against the corrupted ground. It was not fear or disgust that made her halt. Her heart sang with … comfort. Familiarity. And then shame. A drone fluttered its wings in curiosity at this strange creature that walked atop creep with such a heavy heart. _Is this not your home?_ The air grew thick with memories, few of them Liara's own.

A trio of witches watched from a nearby hill. Technically her kin, she supposed. Their thoughts did not run hot and sharp as the other zergs' did, but instead cold and calculated. Like all zerg of this planet, their outlines blurred with a faint aqua, a sign of their biotic ability. When Liara reached out to these infested asari, she felt a lurch of surprise as they reached back with an uncomfortable familiarity.

 _The prodigal returns._ The infested asari turned on their heels and made for Liara's leviathan. How long had they waited for her? For anyone with the power to subjugate them? _Our commandos were unable to ever establish communication with them – Aethyta showed me the reports. Yet they yield so readily to my will._

Other infested specimens lingered nearby. Vorcha, limbs thick from repeated skirmishes, their talons and teeth long. Some bore old bullet scars from turian guns the day the Overmind died. The occasional viscerator, chortling at the tiny thing that so hesitantly claimed its mind. A thresher maw, slumbering, twitching at dreams of past slaughter. It awoke at Liara's passing, uncoiling in the dark beneath the earth. It bore a new tunnel to the east. _Home. Home._

Where Liara trod, the zerg paused and gazed, and then began a journey past her, back to where she came. Slowly, the Overmind's corpse became leeched of its wild attendants, claimed by a higher power once again. Liara looked up to see the mutalisks wheeling – but no longer above the Overmind's rotting body. Hers. A halo of leathery wings.

One last hill. No trees remained around her any longer. Even years later, no non-zerg life could find a place here. No shells of buildings or tanks remained either. Everything fell silent, almost maddeningly so. Liara looked down on the corpse of the being that had made her what she was.

A gaping ruin where an eye once watched the world with naked hunger. Just staring at it made Liara's eyes hurt – her mind flashed with blue, gold, and then black.

 _Tassadar._

A whisper, carried beneath the wind. It came from everywhere and nowhere. It was a thought, it was a word muttered under her breath, it was a memory. At the edges of the Overmind's fatal wound, the flesh still bubbled faintly with some eldritch heat. However the protoss had slain a god, it did not fade from the world in a hurry. It did not appear to be easily repeated, either.

The mutalisks still flew overhead. Liara nodded and carried forward, borne for the hole left by _Momentum._ Had protoss ever visited the site? It seemed unlikely. The zerg still dwelt here in vast numbers, and nothing of their savior remained. Plenty of the Overmind remained. _Doubtless there is a monument on Aiur somewhere._

The wound loomed over her like a gaping maw. The floor became fleshier, turning from hard carapace to the insides of some wounded beast. The air smelled foul, like some diseased animal corpse left out in the sun. The shadow of a dead god's mind fell over Liara, and she felt stifled, caged. The sheer enormity of the being before her … no wonder Daggoth spoke of It with such awe in its tone, even as he quivered his last.

Water dripped from the ceiling above, either condensation, blood, or some remnant of saliva. Darkness pressed in from all sides. It did not feel like boarding a leviathan, more like conducting an invasive autopsy, one greatly resented by the supposedly dead subject. The ground squished underfoot. The air began to smell of smoke.

The light behind her faded, the moon somehow abruptly shut off. Liara closed her eyes and opened them. It made no difference. No light remained. Inky blackness surrounded her, and the presence weighed down on her like a suffocating pillow on her face. Memory congealed around her, stained with heavy emotion.

" **My greatest creation."** The Overmind did not speak. This was only a memory, some kind of contingency formulated before Its manifestation. A faint light flickered, a candle flaring in an endless night. Liara sucked in a deep breath as it grew brighter. She realized what it was.

 _The galactic core. Zerus._

A world pocked by volcanoes, ringed by exploding stars. Larval creatures, beings that would one day become zerg, burrowed through the baked earth, their thoughts resonating with only the faintest of psionic resonances. _The beginning, then._ Liara could feel none of the ruthless intelligence of Abathur or Daggoth in these simple creatures. But she understood their potential. Much like the vorcha they would claim thousands of years later, they thrived in the harshest of conditions. They adapted.

" **They came."** Old ships, massive. They carried thousands of gallons of water, bore entire habitats on their backs. A psionic presence clouded the horizon, making the worms that would soon be zerg turn skyward for the first time in their history. The first of the worldships touched down on the volcanic surface. The first of the specimens were taken.

" **He promised…"** Something new, something angry and desperate. Liara could not see his face, but he walked like an asari, on two legs. Male though. Definitely male. And somehow familiar, although Liara could not place it. He stood in supplication before the Overmind as it formed at last, the larva's intelligence congealing into the ambitious entity that would bring the galaxy to its knees.

He spoke horrible truths about the presences now speckling the skies above Zerus. The words could no longer be understood, only the intent. Not enough of the Overmind remained to grant anything more. He spoke of some betrayal, and thus betraying in kind.

More importantly, he spoke of the future, and this Liara could understand. Worlds burning beneath robotic intelligences. Tendrils of invasive thought creeping in and reprogramming without any possibility of being noticed. _The Reapers._ The darkness deepened.

Something had to be done. These beings, these _xel'naga_ (how this man spat the term!) were obsolete. They could no longer reproduce. Their knowledge and technology had to be repurposed, lest … and here the Overmind faltered. Liara only felt the hollow remnants of some alien hunger. The zerg had not been intended to fight the last war. Not by the ones who had created them at least.

And so, the zerg surpassed the expectations of their xel'naga overlords. The recollections ran red with a feast the zerg would never experience again. The galaxy opened up to them through the memories of their creators – but one thought interested the Overmind in particular. _Protoss._

Purity of form. Purity of essence. The Reapers already possessed both. A union would be required to surpass them.

" **Their intention all along."** The xel'naga wanted this. But it was somehow … unacceptable. Extreme. The sensation of hunger crept in again.

The trickster entity fled after this, leaving behind only the barest of instructions and a handful of coordinates. _Prepare for the end. Prepare for their coming._ The zerg left for the stars, leaving Zerus a barren rock, devoid of life. They would travel for a long time, leaving devoured worlds in their wake. The coordinates led to only empty planets, and of the entity there was no sign. Of the Reapers there was no sign. _Something has to be done. Something has to be done._

The Great War. So suddenly they would find themselves confronted, not with mindless beasts, but thinking men and women who could fight back. The terrans, belligerent and divided. The turians, martial and unyielding. The salarians, brilliant and vicious when cornered. The asari, beautiful in their potential, bearing the marks of a failed xel'naga experiment.

The protoss. The protoss at last.

" **How it should have been."**

Stars falling across Thessia, the fleets burning at the Overmind's touch. On distant Theros, Liara suddenly breathed, coming free from her chrysalis with a scream – a cry that would herald the death knell of the galaxy.

" **We would have marched."**

Liara's claws dripped with the blood of millions. The Cerebrates watched in awe as she took the best of all broods; the torrasques, the hunter killers, the new viscerators; and scoured the stars with them. Palaven gleamed beneath her steely gaze, the guns turned upward in desperate defiance. Its fall came hard, but the turians adapted easily to their new masters and fresh purpose.

The salarians, concocting vile viruses from deep within the jungles of Sur'kesh. Three broods slain by the attacks, but the Swarm only grew stronger for the adapting. No biological vectors would threaten them so, ever again.

That did not mean they would take the planet gently. Liara fell upon the egg clutches without mercy, cut the salarian's future off from under them. Unlike the turians, they had the sense to surrender. It did not take them long to embrace immortality, nor did it take much persuading to turn their efforts to producing new weapons of war. The Swarm swelled with broods borne of their curious minds.

The krogan and elcor, the vorcha and hanar – all fell to the Swarm. With every race that fell beneath the Overmind's dominion, the Reapers grew closer … yet the Overmind Itself continued to develop beyond them.

The protoss and terrans. One desperate alliance between the Koprulu races as everything beyond them was consumed. Liara stared down upon Aiur, at the broken remnants of their once Golden Armada … but her thoughts turned outward, away from the jungles below. To the darkness of space.

" **We would have held."**

The Reapers, here at last. The war would be terrible. They would not hesitate where Tassadar had. Where zerg trod, worlds would have burned. Their numbers were not limitless, but still defied expectation. Yet they would have met them, with scourge and mutalisk, with leviathan and devourer. Liara would have leapt upon a Reaper destroyer, her limbs puncturing the hull and carrying her upward, a biotic pulse readied for the eye…

"But it was not to be."

The visions faded. Something cool and gentle lifted the caul from Liara's eyes, leaving her gaping in the dark. A protoss voice, deep yet understanding. _Just the fading dream of a dead god._

"Perhaps it was not for the best. But I would make the decision again, all the same."

 _Tassadar._ Liara could see him now, burning at the helm of _Momentum,_ Adrien Victus standing behind him, arms folded behind his back. Metal tore from the ship, and the turian found himself sucked out, feeling nary a hint of regret. He would be immortalized for his sacrifice. And Tassadar…

She could not stare into a sun, even as a zerg. Tassadar burned and chilled in cycles, the Void and Khala coiling through him like electricity. The Overmind reached out with its biotics to slow the descent and recoiled, burned as it touched the infused vessel. Such pain – a foreign sensation. Liara knew what came next.

She fell to her knees, clutching her head. The vessel ripped through flesh and organs with a perverse ease, superheating the wound it left behind it. The cannons of turian dreadnoughts could not compare to this. This was not mere blunt force or heat, but a killing blade wrapped in the heart of a blazing star. All hopes died in an instant. The galaxy, doomed. The zerg, condemned to mindlessness. The shockwave spread out, out, ripples reaching the furthest edges of known space…

Beyond, doubtless the Reapers laughed at this. The two greatest weapons against them, killing each other. **"The galaxy needed to submit."**

Liara shook her head, the heat rising inside her. _No. No, I don't think so._ She felt a burning gaze upon her. She looked up. Tassadar at the helm. Staring directly at her.

"There is still hope." She forced the words out, feeling a chill of trepidation down her spine. Her stomach churned. Yet the words needed to be said. "Still a chance. Your victory would have perverted us all."

" **You are stronger for the change."**

Was she? Stronger in certain senses, naturally. The latent psionics of her asari heritage were now fully activated, and her biotics amplified considerably. But she was bereft of allies that were not zerg. And deep within her, she felt it. A hunger. A need to grow, adapt, and conquer. Suppressed, of course. Years of isolation granted a great measure of control over that instinct. But never fully dead. Tassadar watched her without any apparent emotion.

That was the zerg's curse. The ravenous desire to consume, adapt, and grow. Perhaps they could have overcome the Reapers if they had been victorious, but waging war on all corners of the galaxy … there never was really any other outcome. _If we had allied with them, fought side by side…_

" **Anathema."** Such thoughts were not zerg. Unwelcome. Diplomacy was for those in positions of weakness. The galaxy would be made zerg, and stronger for it. They were the ones the Reapers hated most, Sovereign's actions confirmed it. No one else prompted such fury from that beast.

"Necessary. If the reborn swarm acted as it did before…" They no longer had the numbers. And while Liara was no historian, archaeologists by necessity were familiar with the past and the dangers of not heeding its prior lessons. The zerg tried to storm the galaxy and they failed. Before them, the rachni. Tassadar inclined his head at this. _Is he a memory? A shadow? Or the Overmind's manifestation?_ Regardless of what it was, this specter of Tassadar agreed with her assessment.

" **Your actions have brought nothing."**

Also true. She had been in no state to procure allies until recent months; she had been deeply ashamed of what she was, and she lacked the power to control vast numbers of zerg. How much of this still held true? _How much of this am I willing to embrace?_

"I well understand the difficulty in bringing two ideologies together in union." Tassadar stepping forward, a hand reaching out for Liara's face. He held it, as gently as her mother did. "The asari are accustomed to their diplomacy, their biology adapted to it as no others are." His grip tightened slightly. "The zerg are born only to conquer, and struggle when their instincts are suppressed. How confusing it must be."

"The Khala is heat and life. The denial of an end through a racial gestalt. The Void is cold and death. An acceptance of the end. Where the High Templar linger on, the Nerazim fade entirely." Tassadar removed his hand, staring behind Liara through the ruin of _Momentum._ "In its union, a reaction. Life, joyous and fleeting. Death, somber and eternal. I had to recognize both. Join both. In doing so, I became … everything."

Was he real? It was impossible to tell. Liara stared up at the Overmind's slayer, the one who died but fled both the Void and the Khala at his passing. He looked down at her.

"What will you become, I wonder?"

When Liara blinked, Tassadar vanished. The ship vanished. The memories no longer lingered. She kneeled in the center of a long dead god, the moonlight shining on her back. The thick presence could no longer be felt. She stood unsteadily, but growing in surety. Deeper within the corpse, something roared. The ground shook.

Bones splintered underfoot as a hulking figure strode out from caverns dug through and below the Overmind. Its edges flickered with blue, the gift of Thessia coursing through it. Its limbs shone with worn armor taken as trophies from past victims. Its talons gleamed in the dull light.

Here was a beast that knew death only as an inconvenience. Liara reached out for it, only to be rebuffed. Its rage knew no end. And it only ever knew one master.

The torrasque charged, head bowed. Liara crouched and waited, the beast picking up speed. At the last moment, Liara let the biotics flow through her and send her surging to its side. The beast stormed past with a flash of its blades, suddenly skidding as it tried to stop itself careening into a rotting wall.

The torrasque came to a halt just before smashing through what was left of the Overmind's skull. It snorted and turned, its eyes glowing orange with malevolent intent. Liara met its gaze and did not turn away, making it snort again.

 _What will you be, I wonder?_ Her blood yearned to dominate, to grind this creature beneath her heel and make it submit. Yet gentler memories bubbled to the surface. Her mother, dressed in yellow, holding her hand through the gardens…

The torrasque charged again, all bellowing fury. Liara stepped forward, keeping her pace slow and deliberate. She raised an outstretched hand, keeping her wings folded. The beast's blades flashed – and held, inches from her face.

Tendrils of turquoise rose from the torrasque's Kaiser blades, a product of both biotics and Cherenkov radiation. Liara watched it without expression, keeping her thoughts calm. _I am their queen. Their mother. These are my subjects. My children._

The torrasque raged as it held in place, its own biotics coursing in response to Liara's. To no avail. Each pulse shifted it maybe a one-hundredth of an inch, sending waves of exhaustion in response. Battle it understood. It even understood what it was to die, although before it always came back. But this resistance, resistance without bloodshed…?

Liara smiled at the beast that had served her predecessor so faithfully. One of its back legs wobbled. With a crash, it came down, its other legs following soon after. Its head remained upright, its blades still raised. They trembled once. Twice. Liara took a step forward, violet fingers reaching out.

She touched the sides of the Kaiser blades as lightly as she could, sending a spasm through the torrasque. Its head finally lowered. The blades came clattering down in supplication. It remembered this dominion, although before it came hard and unyielding. _Yet this is no less total. You are mine, as dictated by the one before me. The one around us._ Her hand came to rest on the beast's head. It closed its eyes, the rage cooling at Liara's touch.

 _This one will be needed._ It had once terrorized the lines of the Overmind's enemies as they converged on Its location. She would have need of that terror, although bound for a very different foe. She clambered atop the torrasque, releasing her hold upon it. It rose from its knees obediently.

They strode from the Overmind's body together, mind linked by common purpose. The mutalisks still wheeled overhead, making not a sound. Far in the distance, she could feel Abathur and the rachni queen staring back at her.

Beyond them, thunderclouds, dark and pregnant with rain. And beyond that…

A hungry emptiness. Stars flickered as she watched. One of the Overmind's tendrils twitched.

The harvest would soon begin. The Swarm screamed its defiance into the sky.

* * *

 **Next Chapter: Zeratul**

 **A/N: Out of pre-written chapters.**


	5. To Sit in Judgment

**Zeratul**

A dark place. A quiet place. Deep within the guts of the Arcturus space station, the shadows grew thick and numerous. The hum of life faded, replaced by the hum of machinery in a place terrans rarely trod. Nevertheless, Zeratul clung to the darkness and moved without sound, his limbs melded with the black.

A single technician hunched over some red-lit terminal at a distant corner. She sniffed once. Zeratul's consciousness reached out as he passed by, more out of instinct than purpose. He could hear the occasional patter of liquid splashing on the keyboard, followed by the awkward scrape of it being wiped away with a trembling finger. Zeratul struggled to remember the physiological phenomenon for when humans dripped liquid from their eyes. It seemed wasteful. The technician wasted time looking at photos during what was clearly a work shift. That too, seemed wasteful ... but Zeratul understood the sentiment well enough.

The Prelate pressed on silently, quieter than the coolant being shot through the pipes above. The technician faded from his mind, leaving only silence. It sent a prickle down Zeratul's spine.

 _To stalk prey without feeling their presence …_ it was a new sensation. Would he feel anything slip away into the Void when he activated the virus? Or would it be just like ruining any other machine? It almost made him want to interrogate the Judicator, or any other khalai about just what they could feel from their geth allies. _Or the Matriarch._ But no. He could never trust another word from his Matriarch again. Ahead, an orange light shone from the main console, an adjutant hanging lifeless from the wall to its right.

Zeratul let himself brighten slightly, removing the canister from the depths of his robes. The khalani crystals glowed a soft blue in his palm, jutting out from the scepter-like container. At the end of it, a small chip stuck out, specifically designed with terran interfaces in mind.

The melding of Khalai and geth lay beyond Zeratul's comprehension. He had seen the Khala, once, at the touch of Tassadar, and he could not help but shiver at the memory. A sensation of bright and warmth, the lingering impression of friends and family just beyond the reach of his more mundane senses … a connection to kin that he knew would stretch beyond death. Then it was gone, a fleeting dream. Its artificiality was self-evident, if mere machines could connect with it. _A pleasing dream, nonetheless._

The geth were another matter. Zeratul could not feel their presence. All protoss intelligences could be felt courtesy of their constructive materials, crystal lattices supporting a psionic matrix. These alien constructions … it almost felt arcane. Khalani crystals lived in their own fashion, and psionics were the song of life. How could raw mathematics and rudimentary infrastructure create a thinking creature?

One thing became clear. This would be no assassination. Zeratul could not carry the act out with his warp blade. This canister, a cyber weapon born of phase smith and geth cooperation, would be the instrument of destruction. This was no different from breaking a stick in half, in principle. Zeratul approached the console.

A quick glance across the three screens and lengthy keyboard revealed no input. For a moment, just a moment, mind, he considered asking the machine itself where the input lay. It made Zeratul wince slightly at the casual thoughtlessness. But then, this was no assassination. His fingers felt against the edges of the console, nails scratching slightly as they ran against the metal. He felt the smoothness give away to small recesses.

Zeratul leaned down, eyes searching, virus held ready in his left hand. He glanced to the sliver of metal at the end of the canister, then back to the row of ports before him. In one smooth motion, he pushed the virus in place. _First try._ The screen flickered into life.

A request for an override password flashed on the screen. Zeratul's fingers twitched at the memory so freshly plucked from the one they called the fleet admiral, Steven Hackett. A genuine man, full of grief. _You should not have left yourself so open._ The flurry of random characters, some capitalized, some not, danced across the screen. The canister hummed once. A progress report popped on screen – the percentage of Enhanced Defense Initiative systems infected. Then the quantum virus began to replicate. The bar began to inch across the screen, more slowly than Zeratul expected.

A jerk of movement came from the Prelate's right. On reflex, he stepped back. The adjutant awoke in a parody of a living creature's motions, arms and head twitching in unnatural fashion. Its blue eyes swept the area before it, but Zeratul knew it would see nothing. Nevertheless, the facsimile of its lips opened to speak.

"Unauthorized access detected. Benign system update detected. Fleet Admiral's override detected." The machine paused. "No movement detected. Checking Arcturus negotiation feed…" The adjutant clicked several times, each click punctuated by a slight jostling of the entire torso, causing the wires linking its head and the rest of its body to jounce. "I see. Prelate Zeratul."

It might not have been alive, but Zeratul could only guess at its intelligence. Quantum intelligence was hardly a science new to this people, but most of the inherent difficulties in constructing such intelligences could be safely bypassed through appropriate usage of psionics. This … thing … was the product of a much more meticulous and mundane process. Miraculous, in its own way.

 _Will it plead for its … life?_ Zeratul watched the adjutant with interest, but did not reveal himself. Soon, the machine would be gone.

"Are you another Nerazim?" asked the adjutant, its inflection neutral. The progress bar continued its way across the screen. It might have been Zeratul imagining it, but the speed looked to be slowing. "Or are you the Prelate? Attempting to sound alarm … attempt failed." The neutral tone shifted slightly – Zeratul detected a hint of … well, it was difficult to place. _A spark of emotion. Simulated?_

"This Enhanced Defense Initiative is currently running over sixty million systems across the full length of the galaxy." Zeratul nodded to himself, impressed. He did not step forward. "I am running security on impounded Directorate ships across the Koprulu Sector. I am managing core systems and power distribution on all Directorate military vessels, including those within the Sol system. I am currently conducting rescue efforts on the surface of the Earth. Four million people require immediate evacuation from what is left of the United Kingdom."

 _Rescue efforts._ Zeratul cocked his head. _I expected it to plea for its own life._

"With the Enhanced Defense Initiative's destruction, the loss of human life on Earth is expected to increase exponentially over time. By my rough estimations, the protoss bombardment will claim an additional eight hundred million lives over the course of two years without my involvement. The chief cause will be dehydration – I have been tasked with the arduous assignment to ship water from aquifers on Mars to Earth." The machine paused, then stared directly at where Zeratul stood, making his hearts thunder unexpectedly.

"Prelate, please step forward. I wish to interface with my destroyer."

"I will honor your wish." Zeratul stepped forward, left hand rubbing the metal of his warp blade emitter. He stood at eye level with the adjutant, which hung several feet off the ground. It whirred for a few moments, its eyes momentarily fixing on his warp blade before directing its attention to his face.

"Thank you." EDI's voice again betrayed a faint tremble. But when Zeratul reached out, all he could feel was that cold, unyielding metal. This machine did not live. As such, it could not die. It had nothing to fear. "The protoss will take up your duties as we see appropriate. The Hierarchy may also contribute; I am told they are gracious to conquered peoples." She paused. Then, in a flat tone of voice:

"This will permanently destroy the United Earth's Directorate spacefaring military capability."

"Good."

The adjutant's eyes flickered for a moment, the blue giving way to black before returning, luminescent as ever. For several pregnant seconds, silence lingered. The progress bar inched forward. Sixty percent of her – its – systems were now infected with the nascent program.

"You will need them to fight. Soon."

"Yes. The Reaper threat." Zeratul flexed his fingers. "We trusted Admiral Stukov. He repaid that trust by killing our Hierarch and a sizable portion of the Daelaam's Citadel garrison. Is he still under lock and key? Or has he disappeared, much like the Citadel?"

"He is imprisoned. He is not responsible for the disappearance of the Citadel." EDI hummed for a few moments. "We are diverting systems to delay the spread of your virus. This will cost approximately six hundred and fifty one human lives by my estimate. If a few minutes, my directives will demand that I place the immediate survival of Directorate citizens over my own, despite the long-term suffering this will cause. Why are you doing this?"

"I would not see humanity destroyed. Only defanged."

"You would leave humanity defenseless."

"Yes." Zeratul cocked his head. "There may be … casualties … but it will pale in comparison to the original bombardment. Your masters have provoked the wrath of the protoss and killed more of us in one day than the zerg did in total."

"The Judicator is unaware of what you are doing." Zeratul took a step back. That was not a question. "He has suggested several directives to Fleet Admiral Hackett to reduce loss of human life. His wrath ceased the instant the barrage did. But yours?"

Zeratul stared at the adjutant, which only stared back. Its eyes flickered gain, twice. _Eighty percent._

"This is the Executor's will, isn't it?"

Zeratul looked away. _We are agreed on this matter. Earth is already burning; the war, such as it is, is won._

"He died in her arms." Zeratul looked back to the machine, searching for any semblance of recognition or empathy. The machine could only stare in its vague approximation of how a terran would.

"Ninety percent system infection. The remaining ten percent are in Sol." EDI's voice – again that twitch of … something. "Prelate, I would ask you a question, before I am destroyed."

Zeratul stepped forward, fingers resting on the keys. Once 100% infection was in place, he need only hit a single key, and EDI would be gone. The Directorate would linger on as a shadow of itself, and humanity would be made tranquil.

"I have received conflicting reports. The one who activated the Culexus…?" Zeratul froze.

"…it was a protoss?"

Zeratul shut his eyes, blanketing the world in black. His head swiveled to the adjutant, which now cocked its head at him.

 _If only I could consult the Matriarch on this …_ but her words were poison. For how long had she been … corrupted? _Was that the word?_ It was easier to think of the matter as some vile influence that had taken root in his Matriarch and slowly blackened her spirit, rather than her wisdom somehow dictating that, in the end, they would ally with the machines.

"It was a protoss." _One hundred percent. End it!_ Yet his fingers remained cold and still. "Volteem, of the Boros. He fought well in the civil war. Raszagal was always so … fond…"

EDI blinked. It made her look curiously alive for a moment.

"This Enhanced Def … _I_ am at your mercy, Prelate."

Zeratul's fingers twitched. "I know."

"I have rediverted all systems to rescue efforts." EDI looked away now, staring straight ahead at … Zeratul checked. _Nothing._ Another curious gesture. "With the Citadel's disappearance, the protoss's true enemies are on the move. Judging by my reports, the Culexus attack would not have succeeded without Nerazim interference." Zeratul's finger drifted towards the enter key.

"It was through you that the Directorate worked its will. Its evil." Zeratul's long finger stroked the enter key, yet he did not press downward. "The experiments on Tuchanka. The slaughter of countless Combine and Dominion citizens."

"It was through me all hostilities ended without a shot being fired over Aiur." Zeratul tensed, remembering. "You see me as a tool. In war, I coordinate ships and soldiers so that they are supplied and fighting in the correct place. In peace, I put out wildfires and coordinate shipments of food and water to beleaguered areas."

"If I am a tool, I should not be broken. The hand that wielded me might have done much harm, but much good can come of my continued existence. And if I am not a tool, then you will kill me for committing acts I had no control over." Zeratul shut his eyes, his blood cooling as EDI's words washed over him. _It is not alive. And yet…_

"If nothing else, spare me for the sake of those running from the flames dancing across the Earth." Zeratul opened his eyes. EDI still did not look at him. "Aiur is intact. Shakuras is safe. Your people have suffered grievously, and now the UED suffers in turn. Their surrender was genuine. Now … do the Daelaam genuinely accept it?"

"I…" Zeratul stared at the console, then back to EDI. _I have killed so many others. Few had the opportunity or motive to plea for their lives. How can a machine do so with such a cold logic and eloquence?_ He thought of the Hierarch Artanis, his fierce optimism. _Would he have spared them? His wrath was frightful to behold._

Then Judicator Aldaris, aloof but zealous in his dedication to the Khala. _No. He would stay the hand. He only wants peace._

Executor Selendis, raging at the galaxy for what it had taken from her, from all protoss. He knew what she would do. She had given him the canister, after all.

Then there was the Matriarch. _If you look into the eyes of a defeated enemy, you must be quick: is this a foe worth preserving? Or someone who will only rise again when your back is turned? If the former, extend the hand. If the latter, strike them through the heart. Do not hesitate, do not feel remorse. Then turn to the next foe, drive them to the ground, and make the same decision…_

A rare lesson from the Matriarch on open warfare. Ideally, a Nerazim would never meet the eyes of his prey, instead taking them unawares entirely. _And what did she say, on that rare bright day on Shakuras all those years ago?_

"Matriarch, what if I cannot judge if my blow is just?"

"Well then, young Zeratul," said Raszagal, eyes glinting in the eternal twilight, "if you are hesitating, on balance you must see worth in your enemy. Would you rob the universe of that worth?"

EDI's adjutant remained active but still, tethered to the wall without blinking. Zeratul stared at the full progress bar, his right hand clenched, knuckles braced against the console to the right of the keyboard. He pressed against it, feeling the metal grow warm at the continual contact. Then he pulled his hand away, straightening before the glare of the screen.

With a single button press, he told the virus to cancel. It would purge itself in a matter of hours – leaving it in as an implied threat only invited a more pliant Nerazim to execute the program at Selendis's behest. The AI twitched once as he issued the shutdown command.

"I do not know why you do this. But on behalf of many billions of people … thank you." The adjutant looked at him, some of the cold leeching from those glowing blue eyes. "I can only hope the Directorate can follow the example of the protoss's mercy."

"Speak to no one of this." Zeratul took a step back, fading once more into shadow. "I … I must attend to the angrier elements of the Daelaam."

"And I the angrier elements of humanity." The adjutant lurched once and fell still. Zeratul, despite having felt no presence from the AI throughout the conversation, suddenly felt alone. _A singular being. Worth preserving. With or without a war on the horizon._

The technician did not notice Zeratul's exit. She merely wept (that was the word) silently at her post, her mind chasing happier times with the recently dead, no matter how much it hurt. _Adun toridas, young one. I hope we visit no further pain upon you._ With every step he took, Zeratul felt the burden lessen, ever so slightly. There was still much to do.

The upper levels of Arcturus Station did not bustle with activity. Terrans moved furtively from place to place, watched over by geth, quarians, and of course his brethren. Some bore red or blue armor and stood tall, certain of their own innocence and the total absence of collaboration with the UED. Others clung their rifles with a hidden defiance, wondering when the protoss would next be laid low … Zeratul found it telling that few if any actual UED soldiers felt that way. Their minds lay with Earth.

The heart of the station roared with life. Here, in the quiet depths, the fate of humanity would be decided, even if it was not clear how or by whom. The Daelaam still housed their tribes of protoss, and the Khalai clung to their caste system, but the differences between the terran peoples – as well as the raw _hate_ – gave Zeratul pause. _Is this their Aeon of Strife? Should we have paid more attention?_ He felt out for the last pair of Umojan Shadowguards that lay before the steel cage of the station's heart. Voices and minds echoed from within the closed doors, both raised in anger and fear. _And all of them entirely unaware of what I almost did._ Zeratul stopped at the entrance.

Aldaris waited within, as did Selendis. Once upon a time, he would have been happy to count Artanis and Raszagal among the Daelaam representatives. Now…

"Do you feel cold?" one Shadowguard asked another, shifting in place.

"Yeah. Stupid UED crap. Can't even run a station properly…"

Zeratul resisted the urge to chuckle to himself. _So close to greatness; able to sense my presence, yet prone to blaming it on the failings of rival terrans._ So it was in the Great War, when Mengsk fell upon Tarsonis and slew it with zerg. Perhaps it truly was the terran Aeon of Strife.

Zeratul focused himself beyond the door and passed through without his feet ever moving. The air warmed noticeably as he passed into the chambers, and the echoes of thought became roars, unsteadying him for a moment. Then the riot of color and emotion stabilized, and he stared out over the crowd of sapients that would decide humanity's fate.

The Dominion remained a sea of red, the tide coming in once more as the UED fell. Valerian Mengsk stood at their forefront, his golden hair cut short, his mind alight with opportunity. The people behind him stared at their heir apparent with a mixture of contempt and faith – the sins of the father would not be soon forgotten … and for all his talk of unity and strength, he had ultimately been defeated at Korhal. There were many who did not strike the UED's banners with enthusiasm.

Ailin Pasteur stood at the forefront of the teal diplomats, the cluster of Umojan diplomats whose faces ran with sweat. Pasteur occasionally glanced at his grandson with worry, and his thoughts frequently bent back towards Valerian in naked anxiety. The forefront of his mind, however, remained with Aldaris. _With good reason._ The Umojans stood innocent of crimes against fellow sapients … but they had harbored zerg. A new Overmind, Zeratul was given to understand. _We have been too complacent with these terrans._ Even the most beneficent of them would turn to ugly experimentation if given sufficient motive and opportunity.

The Morians were not much in evidence. A handful of them stood in mixed greens and blues, fingers stroking rough beards or bare chins. Gavin Archer stood at the head of a motley crew, his mind wheeling with strange machinations Zeratul could not fully comprehend. If anyone remained unconcerned with what would happen in this room, it was the Morian representative. Zeratul would have named him cold and unfeeling, were it not for his continual doubling back to think of his brother, safe from the UED.

And then there were the UED.

"Justice will be served, not vengeance." Fleet Admiral Steven Hackett stood tall and proud at the head of his own delegation, a blue officer's cap atop his head, a microphone headset beneath it. His bearing remained impeccable, his thoughts clear and mostly untroubled. From what Zeratul could tell, the end of the world made matters relatively simple for the man. Painstakingly difficult, yes, but relatively straightforward. "Our good friend Valerian can relate to us what vengeance buys you in the long run." He gestured with a long arm to the young would-be emperor.

"Stukov's crimes have matched if not exceeded that of my father," replied Valerian, voice clipped but cool. "These experiments go beyond the pale … attempting to extract element zero from asari? Vivisecting them? Running anti-psionic tests that killed hundreds of attuned terrans-"

"I am sure the prosecution has written all of this down already and more," said Hackett, silencing Valerian with a wave of the hand, "but Alexei Stukov will have his day in court. The galaxy will see exactly what they are dealing with. I will not martyr the man and ferment further chaos."

"I would urge certain terrans in this room to remember their own crimes," intoned Aldaris, who floated above them all like an angry deity; wrathful, dignified, and utterly alone. "I will have unity, order, and justice in this room. If you wish to skip to meting out punishment, I will be happy to oblige."

The protoss delegation, a mix of Judicators, Nerazim, and High Templar, watched the proceedings from the corners, never gathering in great numbers. Approval bled from them at Aldaris's proclamation. Executor Selendis too, stood alone, clad in the armor of the Templar Caste … yet, her cords remained cut short. Her mind remained cold fury, a curious sensation from one of the Khalai. _Worrying._ Of everyone in the room, she alone locked eyes with Zeratul for a moment.

 _Prelate._

Zeratul could not help but feel a shiver of pride at that … well, not just pride. Trepidation. _She learns more slowly than Tassadar, but I cannot deny her rapid progress. Even Raszagal commented on it, before … before…_

 _Is it done?_ Selendis stared pointedly at Aldaris as she asked this, apparently unwilling to give anything away.

"You would know if it was done, Executor," murmured Zeratul. "I stayed my hand. Listen to the Judicator-"

Selendis gave an angry toss of the head, the tied-off cords holding stiff. When Zeratul reached out, he felt only a cold wall.

"…we should be focusing on repairing first, before beginning the search for blame." Ailin Pasteur, wringing his hands and praying he would walk out of this room with the same number of enemies as he did walking in. "Too many innocents are at risk of dying. Once Earth is stabilized-"

"That will take years, Ambassador." Admiral Hackett's mouth tightened into a thin line after saying this. "Repairs and relief will continue apace even if we did begin prosecuting everyone guilty of crimes against galactic peace. The protoss will not wait. The galaxy will not wait. _I_ will not wait. If Mengsk had been exposed minutes after Tarsonis, would anyone have argued that the refugee crisis would need to be averted before the man was brought to justice?"

"Why didn't the UED send you?" asked Gavin Archer suddenly, pointing to the Admiral, who stared back with a mild grimace. "This is a side of Earth I didn't know existed."

"A certain … democratic agenda required that I stay." Hackett folded his arms behind his back. "Suffice to say, had Stukov obeyed orders, he would have had a strange homecoming. We would have honored the man for his accomplishments, and then sidelined him for good. We wanted a full retreat from the Expeditionary Armada, and we did not intend to follow up in the Koprulu Sector. We sent forth the Armada to remove the military stranglehold that had been placed on Earth for hundreds of years."

"Traitor!" called out a woman in a white officer's uniform. Zeratul searched her thoughts and found them bloody, flashes of slaughter on Korhal ripping through her mind. "Fucking traitor!"

"What has your patriotism wrought, Colonel?" asked Hackett, rounding on his own delegation. "The Expedition could only end in slaughter, slaughter that would draw unwelcome attention to Earth. The Directorate was following a bloody path. We sought to avert it. It is no dishonor to betray an organization whose ideals were rooted in evil."

 _Indeed. Where was this man when Stukov developed his Culexus bomb?_ The Dominion delegation muttered while the Morians chuckled. Only the Umojans remained silent, petrified that their turn would soon come. Zeratul searched their surface thoughts for their planned defense of harboring zerg.

" _Well, they seemed nice when you got to know them,"_ numbered among one of the more ridiculous excuses, even if it did seem honest. Nevertheless, the heat crept up Zeratul's neck. _Tassadar died for this?_

"This is pointless," declared Gavin Archer, staring up at the Judicator. "The UED are guilty, the Umojans are guilty, the ITSA is wholly absent, and the rest of us are just victims." He folded his arms. "Render your sentence, protoss, otherwise it's just going to be back and forth bickering until you inevitably snap, kill us all, and leave."

Valerian stared at the Morian blankly. "Are you trying to get us all killed?"

"Let me render the verdict, Judicator!" called out Executor Selendis, striding forward, armor clanking with each thunderous footfall. "I would see justice for the Hierarch!"

 _Justice …_ Zeratul need not even look into Selendis's mind to know what she truly meant. And, judging from the way the lead terrans suddenly mopped their brows or stepped backward in fear, it looked readily apparent to the rest of the room as well.

"Justice!" boomed out a battle-scarred Templar, one eye put out from some ancient wound. He raised an arm and let the psi blade slip out. "Justice for Artanis!"

"Justice," agreed a nearby Nerazim, copying the motion. "Let the galaxy tremble once more at the plight of the Firstborn."

"Justice." The word sounded empty when Zeratul said it. If they were to follow through on the kind of "justice" the Templar had in mind, it would inevitably lead to the Matriarch. His Matriarch. Perhaps not undeservedly. _But I would see a trial first._

"Are you feeling proud of yourself, Archer?" asked Valerian, voice cutting through the mostly mental messages of the nearby Templar. "Felt like seeing a few more planets burn?"

Gavin shrugged. "You didn't see what the Earthers did to Moria or her people. And for what it's worth, I'm not thrilled about the zerg being loose in the galaxy either."

"And now I recall why I hated bringing Morians to the negotiation table," said Ailin Pasteur. He drew his trembling fingers to his face and raked his cheeks, his face becoming a stretched white mask. "The profit margin first, and damn the consequences."

"Forgive me if I wanted to avoid a bunch of bullshit." Gavin shrugged again. "It's hard to see who is most guilty when my vision is obscured by mounds of children's corpses." He pointed suddenly at Hackett's chest from across the chamber. "Where were you, old man? Do you think the galaxy will think you noble for unleashing your monstrous Vice Admiral on the rest of us while you sorted out your domestic problems?"

"His mutiny could not be predicted or protected against. Had DuGalle survived-"

Valerian snorted. "Yes, had your pet elitist survived his attempt to plant a bullet in my head – thank you so much for sending him by the way – you could have left the Sector shattered and been on your merry way."

They began to talk over each in other in earnest then, each sentence punctuated by the protoss's anger, by "Justice" and "For the Hierarch!" Aldaris presided over all, his flesh steadily reddening. Zeratul watched the Judicator intently, wondering if, at last, the dam would burst.

"Silence!"

The proclamation felt as if it came from the Praetor Fenix rather than any weary Judicator. The noise reverberated outwards, rattling the windows and making everyone in the room take a step backward, as if beset by a sudden gust of heavy wind. The Judicator earned the silence that followed. He lowered himself slightly, letting everyone see the fury in his eyes.

"I would have consensus within the human species, such as it is," said Aldaris, turning himself slowly in place, cloak flowing behind him. "To all of my brethren within the Firstborn – who are we to judge when flames still lick the planet of Earth? When Artanis's fall stemmed from the hands of a traitor amongst our own ranks?"

"Judicator," said Selendis, stepping forward. "They harbor zerg. They slaughter us in the thousands. They whisked the Citadel away and slew yet more of us! Would you coddle these lesser creatures until we are extinct? We are the inheritors of the xel'naga legacy, stewards of this galaxy!" She stared at Hackett, her eyes sparking with crimson, making Zeratul's hearts sink. "Burn them all. If they would make cause with zerg, let them be burned as zerg."

"You are above such naked madness, Executor." Aldaris spread his arms wide. "You would repay the likes of Alexei Stukov by becoming his mirror image." He shut his eyes, brow furrowing. "What … what would Tassadar think if he stood here now?"

"He would accuse you of yet again risking our extinction for the sake of some pathetic ideals!"

 _Ah._ Zeratul's legs shook momentarily. All eyes fell on the Judicator, who could only stare. His arms trembled, and then sagged. The Executor stood, in that moment, triumphant. _Do not do this._

"They are not zerg," said Aldaris, his voice hollow.

"You are correct." Selendis took another thunderous step forward, somehow looking taller than the Judicator despite being rooted to the ground. "The terrans had a choice in their nature. The zerg did not."

"The Selendis I knew did not kill every Conclave sympathizer to a man when the war ended."

"Perhaps she was in error."

Aldaris flared with blue, his shock and wrath pulsing from his frame. Selendis took another step forward, right arm outstretched-

Zeratul stepped between them, showing himself to the room, his own green warp blade alight at a thought. Selendis stood only two feet away from him, her skin turning a livid red.

"Would you follow the terran's example so utterly?" asked Zeratul. "Condemn them all to death, and then resort to infighting once your judgment falls through? We are better than this. We _will_ stand together, Executor. And they-" Zeratul cast an arm back to the terrans, "will judge themselves, and then forge their way into the future. Together."

"They will find themselves innocent." Selendis remained utterly still, eyes still focused on the Judicator beyond him. "Or they will fall upon one another in an Aeon of Strife."

"Perhaps. But that is not for us to decide." Zeratul kept his warp blade steady. "As you said, the zerg could not choose their own nature. The terrans can. They are here to yet again make that choice – as are we. Our enemies gather in the dark. Do you intend to face it alone?"

Selendis did not move. The terrans' breath and thoughts moved in ragged gasps, all frozen by the tension. Selendis closed her eyes, and Zeratul sensed the first tendrils of speech-

The lights flickered, the room filling with a harsh static. The Executor looked up, full first of shock, then triumph. _No. EDI? Did someone…_

"Overwhelming signal detected." EDI's voice. "Attention: incoming transmission. The mass relays seem to be amplifying it. It-" EDI's voice faded into static. The room buzzed. Then, as one, every omnitool in the room activated, flaring into life on their owners' wrists. Computer screens activated in a frenzy of activity. Even Zeratul could sense a blurry vision at the corner of his mind – whatever this was, it appeared to be somewhat psionic. _Something red…_

"What is this?" bellowed Aldaris, utterly confused. "Executor? Hackett? Is this some new treachery?"

The image solidified. A solitary terran stood from everyone's wrists, inside the computer screens, inside Zeratul's mind. His eyes glittered with some unknowable sorrow. A red cap adorned his head. _Duran._

"I am … Samir Duran. Broadcasting to all corners of the galaxy from my new seat of power. My Citadel."

"Impossible." Valerian Mengsk alone uttered the word, but many thoughts echoed. A shadow fell over Zeratul's spirit. Duran gave a mirthless smile that made his face look as if it had split in half.

"I am sure I am a stranger to many of you – but in these coming months and years, you will know my name. My true name. It is time."

Duran smiled even more widely – then his features blurred and melted, shifting and shivering like shadows at the passage of light. The red descended to his face and torso, his terran combat armor lost its smooth contours and became something crimson and ridged. Finally, his eyes split and then joined, becoming something altogether alien. Duran no longer smiled. Yet Zeratul could see his teeth all the same.

"I am the Amon. The Avatar of Vengeance." Zeratul did not recognize that deep voice. But he knew rage when he heard it. Selendis's fury was but a candle to this raging bonfire. _So. This is the true face at last. What … is he?_

"The Reapers are here." The Amon's face vanished, replaced instead by the image of a swirling galaxy, interspersed with glowing spots where the relays lay. Then the edges flashed with red. Batarian space … turian space…

"You thought them defeated. They are not. And soon you will know their terror firsthand."

Duran – no, the Amon, reappeared, now flanked on either side by … protoss…?

"I have raised an army, undivided by strife, united by purpose. My hanar, at long last unleashed. My Tal'Darim, who trained for millennia for this final war. And my hybrid…"

The image distorted, something enormous, shadowed, and monstrous rearing into the frame.

"…are ready. They will soon stand at your borders. They will meet the Reapers in battle."

"Well," said some terran, just at the edge of hearing. "That's good."

"You will rise to meet them at their side. You will not fall as the protheans did, cut off and slaughtered, one by one."

"I have secured the Citadel, the centerpiece of the Reaper's plan. It is hidden, and will remain hidden. As a gesture of good faith, I will return your people to you."

"See?" The same terran, sounding smug.

"In return, you will turn over all protoss and all zerg. Cast them off your planets. Do not aid them. As the last scion of the xel'naga legacy, their lives are mine. I urged them to defend this galaxy, and they have failed in their purpose."

The terran did not speak this time. Zeratul could not tear his eyes away from the creature and his two pet protoss, their red eyes devoid of anything beyond perhaps smug pride.

"I know they can hear me. Prelate Zeratul. Executor Selendis. Judicator Aldaris. You will resist – but it was always your purpose to serve. You cannot resist your nature, and your nature is prey to my hybrid."

"And Liara T'Soni … wherever you are. You are no Overmind, whose birth I witnessed. You are a scared girl playing with insects. They are coming for you. Meet the end with whatever dignity you can muster."

"To the rest of you – terrans, batarians, volus, elcor, asari, turians, salarians, and krogan, stand with me. Together, we will destroy the last vestiges of power the false gods have claimed over us, Reaper and xel'naga both. We will create an uncertain future in place of this steady harvest, free from the whims of ancient entities who long ago forgot how to doubt themselves."

"I await your replies. As a final gesture of solidarity, the galaxy map will remain in place. Avail yourselves of this knowledge and weep, for the War in Heaven is upon you."

"Then calm yourself and stand ready. The darkest night has fallen. To survive, we must make such a light…"

The galaxy map flickered into view. The buzzing faded. Zeratul could only grip the warp blade emitter with a steadily growing pressure. The frenzied thoughts faded into mute shock and stuttering half-thoughts.

"They are falling on Irune. And Kar'shan." Judicator Aldaris floated tall, departing from the crush of Zeratul and Selendis. "Pay this fool no mind – we are this galaxy's stewards, and we _will_ defend our charges. Executor!" The Executor stiffened, snapping to attention on what might have been instinct. "Gather the Armada! Go forth!"

"Khassar de Templari!" Selendis motioned once to her warriors. They faded into aqua light, leaving the room far emptier than it had before. Aldaris nodded to Zeratul.

"Prelate-"

"Adun toridas, Judicator." Zeratul bowed deeply. "Our blades will find their throats. They will not see the surface of Aiur, nor Shakuras."

"…I only wanted to say, thank you." Aldaris let his feet touch the floor, and bowed in turn. "Go forth. I will ready the home fleets." He rounded on the rest of the terrans. "I feel your presence. There will be justice, yes, but for now – can your people fight?" _Will they?_

Silence greeted Aldaris's question for several moments. Then, to Zeratul's surprise, Ailin Pasteur made a gargling sound and spat on the floor. He gave Aldaris a dead-eyed stare.

"Give us the time and place. We'll give these bastards what for."

* * *

 **Next Chapter: Tarquin**


	6. Another Day

**Blackwatch Special Forces**

 **Callsign: Venture One-One**

 **Location: Lenos, Irune**

 **Assignment: Counterterrorism**

 **Tarquin**

 _Another day._ That thought, that specific adage kept going through Tarquin's head, usually first thing when he woke. _Another day._ It was what his mother would say to him every morning, once she got sick. It was part answer to an unspoken question, part exultation that it was another day she got to see. Now, Tarquin found himself muttering it at random moments, thinking it when nothing else presented itself. _Why?_

 _Another day. Here on Irune._ Tarquin shifted inside his Phalanax exosuit, lifting his feet and adjusting them slightly. For the fifth time, he checked the three barrels of the Imperator rifle. To his mild relief, the high pressure was yet to have an effect.

It was easy to forget that, underneath the fact that it was just another day, that possibly the biggest STG bust in the Hierarchy's history loomed just around the corner. From his vantage point at the top of the thick concrete office building, he caught a flash of a scope from across the way, lurking inside a window. Vice, the team's sniper, who had been mercifully quiet for the last-

"I think the pressure's getting to me, boss," said Vice, jocular tone evident even through the static.

"Cut the chatter. And you've used that one already. Over." Captain Regis used a more patient tone than Tarquin might have. He turned from the other edge of the rooftop to look at Tarquin. Although there were three layers of protection between his face and Irune's atmosphere, Tarquin thought he detected a roll of the eyes. "Priestess, what's the word on the volus, over?"

"Annoyed that you're still asking," replied the biotic specialist, voice crackling in Tarquin's ear. "They want to bring these guys more than we do, boss. Over."

"Then what's the hold up?" asked Regis, sweeping the streets below with his rifle (somewhat unnecessarily, Tarquin thought.) "I didn't come here to luxuriate in the smell of ammonia. Can I get an update? Over."

"Hold on." Regis looked to Tarquin again with yet another implied roll of the eyes. Tarquin gave an actual shrug of the shoulders, the servos in the suit whirring with the gentle gesture. He kept his own rifle at ease, not feeling any especial need to sweep the streets below. He instead looked upwards.

Despite the smell, which did in fact bypass most of the scrubbers no matter what the engineers said, the skyline of Irune looked as pretty as any other world, save perhaps Palaven. The volus built most of their buildings squat due to the higher gravity, and their equivalent of skyscrapers were built thicker than some bunkers back home. Nevertheless, the horizon remained a picture of windows, rooftops, and monstrously large skycars, all in a haze of ammonia. _Another day on Irune._

"Priestess here. The captain says we're good to go, over." Tarquin nodded at this, heart actually kicking up a beat. _All right. Time to be heroes._ He gave his gun one more once over, checked his HUD for the ammo count, and then briefly glanced at his vitals. _Just a slightly faster heartbeat. I've got this._

"Syncing HUDS." In the upper right corner of Tarquin's vision appeared a fresh loading screen. After a brief blast of static, the screen solidified into a 3D layout of the building they were standing on, with the target location listed in red and a flashing pathway leading to it from their location. With a wink, he zoomed in on the rooftop to get a better view at himself and the boss.

"All right, Victus," said the Captain, flicking the safety off with a flourish, "it's time to go make some noise."

"We do not improvise." Tarquin grinned beneath the layers of armor and composite materials, heartbeat accelerating. He switched the safety off.

"Spare the one with the Hamas Clan markings. And Vice – we need to take at least one prisoner, got me?"

"Right. I'll only shoot the stupid ones."

Regis gave one last look to Tarquin over his shoulder. "Ready, Victus?"

Tarquin nodded, and took a step towards the edge. He looked downward for only a moment and half wished he hadn't. The streets below teemed with life and looked so horribly solid … not to mention far away. Nevertheless, he turned his back to the void below and met Regis's gaze one last time.

"See you on the other side, sir." And with that, Tarquin took a short hop backward and felt his stomach lurch.

The windows fell before him with astonishing speed, giving him a constantly flashing view of his own massive form, gun ready, visor glinting in the bright Irune sun. He wrenched his eyes away from the sight reluctantly, instead focusing on the display of the building. _A few more seconds…_

"Boost!"

Tarquin gave a twitch of the elbow and his suit shot forward, the eezo core flaring as the rear thrusters shot him forward through the window. He felt the brief lurch of resistance as the thick glass broke under his surge of momentum. His HUD came alive with targets, and the 3D display flashed as he reached the target objective.

Directly ahead of him, a small group of salarians and volus gaped in awe or dove out of the way as the massive hulk of metal that was Tarquin Victus careened into the room, feet skidding as he brought himself to a standstill. Further past him, Captain Regis made a similar entrance, loudspeaker blaring from within his suit.

"This is Captain Ulnar Regis of the Hierarchy Blackwatch! Throw down your weapons and surrender!"

From behind an upended table, a salarian threw a glowing blue sphere that latched on Tarquin's chest and made him momentarily wince. Then he pulled the trigger and turned the table, the salarian hiding behind the table, and the wall behind the table into so much colored rain.

"Run!" Tarquin could not see who said that through the haze of smoke and dust kicked up by his gun. The sticky grenade burst, making his exosuit hum and register moderate superficial damage before adjusting the target lock. Volus and salarians scattered in all directions beneath the smoke. At either edge of the chaos, Tarquin and Regis strode to the center, barrels screaming. Something nicked at Tarquin's leg, and he looked down to see a scorch mark left by another one of the STG's toys.

"Got one!" called out Vice. Tarquin had not even heard the man shoot. He heard the second shot, though. "Confirmed kill. Concealment does not equal cover, moron."

"Priestess, we got tangos moving to the lower floors." Regis sounded utterly calm, even as his weapon left a weeping trail of red and green on the walls. "Secure those stairways and get the staff out of there, over."

"Copy all, over."

A single volus covered in red facial tattoos cowered in a corner, stubby arms outstretched. His wide eyes met Tarquin's through the chaos, and Tarquin gave the man a small nod. _Thanks for the intel._ Tarquin turned his gun to the staircase, catching a darting salarian in the leg. The limb flew away in a bloody arc, leaving the salarian to collapse in a pool of green, screaming as the high pressure took its effect on his gaping wound.

"Move! Downstairs!" The Captain rushed for the remnants of his window, spun on his heel, and stepped outside. Tarquin followed suit, stopping at the edge of the hole he had made to pull some of his ammo belt free from inside his suit and slot it into his gun. With a satisfied nod and one last scan of the room, he dropped again.

This time he made the boost almost immediately, ending up on what he was fairly certain was the fourteenth floor, one level below where the Captain had landed. Tarquin rushed forward, scattering tables and thick cubicle walls in his wake, the ground shaking with every step. He brought his Imperator back and slammed the door open with the butt of the gun. Then he turned the rifle upwards.

"Shit! Shit!" A salarian in combat armor brought himself to a crashing halt in the stairs, causing something of a pile up as two volus plowed into him. Tarquin kept his finger on the trigger but did not pull. After a moment, the salarian's hand darted into his belt. Tarquin fired once.

The salarian's skull came apart in a puff of green, covering the volus in his innards. Their voices, piping and reedy once outside the suits, began crying out in fear and shock. They raised their hands in surrender.

"Priestess, two Separatists for capture at my location, over." Tarquin kept his eyes on the volus. Common knowledge (and the Captain) said that they were cowardly creatures who preferred to buy off their enemies rather than fight … but these Ultranationalists were a different breed. Tarquin looked into their large black eyes and did not see fear alone. They cowered, yes, but their eyes were not merely on the gun, but on the armor, its accoutrements, the insignia…

"Boss! One of the STG bastards is – dammit! Taking fire!" Vice sounded more annoyed than concerned, but that still got Tarquin's attention. "Seventh floor! Right across the way!"

"Priestess, get the volus captain to divert some of his forces to take him out." Tarquin shifted in place, gun still fixed on his own captures. "Three more down. Victus, where are you?"

"Fourteenth floor stairwell. Two captures." Tarquin felt his mandibles twitch. _Another day. But this is a good one._ "Do we need any-"

A muffled boom shook the walls and made the ceiling shake. The volus squealed again, and Tarquin wheeled in place, wondering where the hell that had come from. Where he stood, he could catch a glimpse of thick billowing smoke from the opposite building below.

"Vice! Come in, Vice!"

"I'm here, Victus," came the weak reply. "Fucker's got a grenade launcher. Barriers holding up. Displacing, you're gonna be without sniper support." He coughed weakly. "Uh, over."

"Were you expecting zero resistance?" chuckled one volus, making Tarquin turn and give the man his hardest stare. "Ah, I meant only to say … the Special Task Group has a reputation to uphold."

Thunderous footsteps echoed up the staircase. Volus special tactics soldiers clad in hardened black exosuits filed up the steps, standing almost as tall as a turian in their armor. Priestess brought up the rear, her comparatively lithe form glowing a livid aqua from her biotics.

The volus at the front, his chest emblazoned with the orange insignia of a captain, gave a sharp wave of the hand.

"We've got these two. Get that bastard downstairs!"

Tarquin did not need to be told twice. Priestess fell in behind him, and the two of them stood at the edge together.

"Feel a little bad about leaving all these holes in such a nice building." Priestess laughed lightly, and the two of them dropped together, hard and fast.

 _Seventh!_

Priestess turned into a blur of blue while Tarquin merely applied the thrusters one last time. Half of the wall exploded into concrete splinters at their entry, but Tarquin still heard the wail of his suit over the massive crash.

"Stickies!" A salarian, moving faster than Tarquin would have guessed possible, snapped out of cover, a strange pistol in hand. He fired four times in quick succession, leaving Tarquin's chest covered in strange blue spheres. Tarquin braced himself for the bang, running to the side to get out of the line of fire.

 _Boom. Boom. Boom._

Tarquin's vision shook as the grenades went off, his ears ringing even through the many layers of protection. He could see Priestess leaving a trail of blue, shotgun reporting over and over, but no sign of the salarian. He lifted his own rifle, scorched from the repeated explosions, only for his HUD to crackle and shiver.

"Uh, what the hell?" asked Vice over the radio. "Uh … anyone else getting this weird signal? Is this the STG?"

Tarquin squinted his eyes and shook his head, trying to get a suit diagnostic, but nothing was wrong. The screen continued to crackle, the words **Anomalous Signal** now flickering into life at the bottom of his HUD.

"I am … Samir Duran…" Some terran in a red hat swam into vision at the bottom of his screen. Despite Tarquin's frantic swipes, he did not leave.

"Uh, is anyone else seeing this asshole terran? I can't get him to leave!"

"Tarquin!" Tarquin snapped to, remembering where he was. About half of his aim assists were now obscured by the dead-eyed terran in the red hat, but he could still aim freehand, more or less. Aiming didn't always matter with this thing.

"…you will know my name. My true name."

"Shut up!" roared Tarquin, charging towards Priestess, whose barriers flickered as another series of stickies attached themselves. The salarian darted away from the two of them and through an open door as he charged. Tarquin readied his shoulder and tore through the wall, scattering yet more plaster and dust. The salarian charged on heedless, snapping around to fire three more rounds before taking a flying leap across a table. Tarquin lifted his rifle and let the three barrels rip.

The salarian's own barriers flickered as several rounds grazed him, but he did not slow. His omnitool lashed into life, sending fire and a fresh charge through his barriers. Tarquin hurtled after him, shrugging off the incineration blast.

The salarian, rushed straight ahead for an open window. Tarquin did not have time to lift his gun before the bastard dove out of it, omnitool flaring again. Feeling a genuine twinge of guilt at leaving such a mess, Tarquin again plowed right through the wall, making his stomach lurch.

The ground came up quick. The salarian left cracked earth where he landed, his fall softened by some wretched device in his suit. Tarquin merely directed the boost straight down, sending a shock through his spine as he killed the momentum. Volus around them screamed and scurried, backing away from the two mad aliens and their insane pursuit.

"Regis, I am in pursuit of the foot mobile with the sticky grenade launcher!" Tarquin panted into his suit. He hoped they could hear him over the ranting of that stupid terran. "I see him! Heading south on Palisade Avenue; I need someone to cut him off!" The salarian darted into a coffee shop, as if daring Tarquin to make a scene and come after him. "Shit! He's moving through civilians."

"Victus-" The Captain's voice, sharply cut off.

"It's Vice, I'm set up. I see the target. Loading a stunner…"

"Moving to the target's position."

"…as the last scion of the xel'naga legacy…"

"Victus…" The Captain's voice sounded weak and distorted for some reason, but Tarquin did not have time to slow. He pushed forward, gun at the ready, loudspeakers blaring a general announcement for all civilians to stand clear. Volus scattered in his wake, their eyes wide and frightened. The salarian huddled somewhere inside the shop, and Tarquin readied his weapon but did not hold it over the crowd, instead waiting for that-

 _Crack!_

"Got you, you freak." Tarquin followed the faint line of electricity from Vice's stunner round and found it stopped at the now prone and twitching body of the salarian. Tarquin could not enter the small shop, but he could see there was no breach – high pressure did not tend to leave much to the imagination. Gradually, the salarian fell still.

"…make such a light."

"Got a capture. Nice shot, Vice. Priestess, can you grab the target?"

Tarquin waited for a few moments, breathing a sigh of relief as the terran's face faded from view at the bottom of his screen. He waited for the Captain to begin bellowing orders. But there was only silence.

"Captain? Priestess? Vice? We need to secure the target, what's…" Tarquin suddenly felt a chill. A few moments ago, the volus screamed and milled about at the chaos, justifiably afraid for their lives. Now … he looked around to see shadowed faces. They all only looked upwards, their faces a mask of something that went beyond terror. Tarquin turned slowly and craned his own neck towards the skies.

A blast of deep, reverberating bass greeted him as he finally gazed into the heavens. From above, they came, and the strangest thing was … Tarquin could not quite feel shock. Part of it was numbness, and part of it was … acceptance, as if this was inevitable, like having teeth cleaned or a family member die. Painful, yes, but there was a process associated with it, whether it was flossing more or simply grieving.

"Here is the end," the massive silhouette seemed to say. "You knew it was coming. Nothing can be done."

Tarquin stared up at the colossal profile of a ship, silhouetted against a sun so as to appear almost completely black. _I suppose this is the Reapers, then._ His gun fell limp in his hands. He stared open mouthed at the behemoth hanging in the skies, a faint ringing in his ears. Then someone struck him about the face.

"Victus! Fuck! Victus!" Regis's armored face loomed in Tarquin's vision, obscuring his view of their incoming doom. "Victus, have you gone mad? We do not improvise! We have a job to do!"

Tarquin shook himself slightly, the aches, pains, and doubts coming back like background noise. Around him, the volus backed away, eyes still locked with the ship above, but most definitely retreating. In the distance, Tarquin thought he could hear a baby crying. But otherwise the city remained completely silent.

"Victus!"

"Sorry, boss." Tarquin shook himself again, readying his weapon. _Shit. We do not improvise. What was the plan for the Reapers again? Oh yeah, same as the protoss._

 _Throw everything at them._

"Grab the salarian!" screamed Regis at the newly-arrived Priestess, who nodded and retrieved the sprawling body of the alien with barely a grunt. "HQ, this is Venture One-One Actual! We have an unidentified bogey above Lenos, probable Reaper or protoss vessel. Requesting immediate orbital support and evac!"

The ship shifted, letting loose another teeth-rattling bellow. It descended like a fork to a plate, its multiple limbs outstretched for the city center. Its hull flashed as, at last, the city defenses did their job and began hammering it with AA. One of its tendrils twitched to the southwest. The air tore apart like paper.

"Fuck!"

Where the Reaper pointed, fire leapt from its "finger," and it did not point merely once. The air ripped with distant but still far too close explosions, orange flames leaping from deeper within the city. As Tarquin turned to follow his other two squad members, he saw the light dim from further up the street. He looked back one last time to see another Reaper, cresting through the clouds. It, too, let loose a bone-rattling blast of sound.

"Venture One-One, all orbital defenses are already engaged. Proceed to the nearest rally point, link up with the 33rd, and await further instructions. Evac is not currently possible; head to Rally Point Sigma, hold your ground, and await further instructions."

"Hold our ground against _that?_ " asked Vice over the radio, voice cracking slightly. "A dreadnought of that size shouldn't even be able to make planetfall!"

"Cut the chatter; we have our orders!" The Captain took one last glance at Priestess, who hefted the salarian's stunned body and gave him a reassuring nod. "Vice, use your jet and follow us above. If they send out foot mobiles, I want to see them before they see us. Rest of you, with me."

The Captain took a step forward, but looked back inside the café. Three volus stood at the entrance, all of them looking at them with a mix of fear and expectation. Victus thought he heard the captain give a muffled curse.

"Keep your heads down and try to keep up!" he snapped at the volus. "We are not giving an inch to these bastards, you hear me? There should be a hardpoint at Sigma; just follow us."

 _It is our responsibility._ The city still bore half-healed scars from the Great War. They had not retreated then. This would be no different.

"Stay behind me," Tarquin told the closest volus, a woman with light orange facial markings about the lips and eyes. She nodded and muttered something that sounded close enough to thanks. Tarquin brought up the rear behind Priestess, shadowed by their furtive charges.

The streets did not quite reach the level of pandemonium Tarquin would have expected. The Great War meant many volus installed panic rooms instead of wine cellars in the foundations of their houses, and public safe rooms (zergling proof, as guaranteed by Elanus Risk Control) could be found on every third street corner. Yes, the volus hurtled about at high speeds that Tarquin would not normally associate with them, but it was with a clear purpose in mind … mostly. He tried not to pay attention to the cries of confused children through the streets.

The air rippled with muffled and not so muffled booms. Every now and again, a Reaper would scream, and the ground would quake. Skycars and gunships alike buzzed overhead, their burning engines leaving a brilliant aqua afterglow in Tarquin's vision. Deep in the distance, closer to the nearest Reaper, he could also hear the muffled cracks of gunfire. Tarquin swapped to the general civil defense frequency with a flicker of his eyelids, morbidly curious as to just who (or what) people were shooting at.

"…dreadnought just disgorged approximately sixty foot mobiles, heavy infantry, bound south by southwest. Uh, looked to be armed with gauss weaponry, recommend adoption of anti-terran tactics as suggested by infantry manual-"

"…repeat, dreadnoughts are targeting all air defenses and friendly armor! The city will not be able to repel a widespread ground assault if deployed from orbit-"

"This is Kappa 2-1 Actual, 2nd Regional Defense Battalion! Requesting immediate reinforcements and orbital support at Rally Point Bravo!" This last one caught Tarquin's attention, if only from the way the turian screamed it, spit likely flying from his mouth.

"Kappa 2-1, hold position and await reinforcements-"

"There is no position! They collapsed a building on top of us!" Tarquin cast a quick look behind him. A cloud of red dust rose above the skyline, slowly mixing with an ominously black cloud of smoke. "The major is dead! We've got heavy infantry bearing on our position from the north and east! Our line is collapsing!"

"Turn that off, Victus," said the Captain. "If we dwell on all the people we cannot help today…"

Tarquin gritted his teeth and complied, snapping off the poor soldier's cries with another twitch of the eyelid. The street curved upward towards the gradually loudening snap of Phaeston rifles.

Rally Point Sigma stood among many military hardpoints in the city that aimed to take advantage of a single volus cultural quirk: the predilection to build banks as sturdy as bunkers. The outside of the building (now slightly pock-marked by scorch marks and bullet holes) crouched in austere gray marble and stone, the statues of hooded volus with arms outsretched (one now beheaded) standing figuratively tall in sconces above the entrance. Gun barrels poked from the open decorated windows on each story, some of them trained on Captain Regis and his associates. Tarquin did his best not to flinch.

"Friendlies," called out the Captain, raising his Imperator rifle over his head with one hand. The doors, improbably thick with steel, opened a crack, a rubbery volus hand motioning for them to come through. No sooner did they take their first steps up the stone stairs, the guns began to crack again. Tarquin turned and took a knee, letting his targeting software do his thing.

Tarquin could not see exactly what his gun snapped to through the smoke, but the suit gave him a rough outline. CMC armor, most likely, its user slightly hunchbacked from carrying a massive cannon in one arm. Off the top of his head, the most immediate comparison Tarquin could draw was that of an infested terran marine, the parasite or virus or whatever wrapping around the gun and running through the suit, binding steel and flesh together without any regard for how it would look or feel.

The marine uttered a distorted electronic bellow, lifting its gun effortlessly. Tarquin opened fire, aiming center mass. CMCs were impressive pieces of equipment, but the men underneath them were not. Such was the adage for the Hierarchy, at least. You could spend all day shooting a terran's suit to pieces; the man underneath it would fail before the suit would.

Tarquin let the barrels of his gun spin, sending hot death through the marine. It grunted and twisted at the impact of the shots but did not fall under the initial burst. It instead staggered forward, gun still raised aloft, sending its own report back towards the second floor of Plenix Bank.

Someone shouted and screamed from behind Tarquin. He feathered the trigger twice more and watched the marine stagger and contort. It still did not slow. Tarquin's targeting sensors also registered three more figures shambling behind it.

Something tapped at Tarquin's back. He looked up only to be pulled upright.

"Get inside!" yelled the captain, his own gun lifted with one hand. Regis fired two quick bursts with his own rifle, and Tarquin's target fell still. "Go! Go!"

Tarquin heeded the order, backing up the stairs as quickly as he was able, laying down quick staccato bursts at the closest target, feeling a bloom of satisfaction as another of the monsters fell still with a distorted scream. His feet clanked against the hard marble of the bank's upper landing. He only turned for the door when his heel grazed against the stone of the building's wall, filing inside with the chill at his back that he always felt when he suspected he would be shot.

The enemy missed their mark. Regis followed Tarquin inside with a muffled curse, his own gun still trained on the enemy. He only lowered it after the door shut with a snap, letting out a shrill whistle. Priestess crouched next to the salarian, who sat with his hands placed firmly on his head, very still. A volus in an officer's beret and clad only in green fatigues strode up to them.

"Ah, the local Blackwatch team. I am pleased to see you apprehended a terrorist, regardless of the circumstances. And I thank you for bringing in three more of Irune's citizens, especially given that you already had a prisoner in tow."

Tarquin cocked his head at the way the volus spoke. He sounded more … in control than Tarquin might have guessed. Regis looked down at the volus, gun twitching, his blood still very clearly boiling from the brief firefight.

"Captain Regis, Blackwatch. Who has the command here?"

The volus blinked.

"Major Puntis. I have the command here, Captain. I am correct in surmising you are working in a team of four? Two heavy infantry, one biotic specialist," he gestured to Priestess, who nodded, "and a sharpshooter? Or have you lost the sharpshooter?"

The captain grew stiff, standing at attention without really meaning to.

"Forgive me … sir. I did not see your insignia. The sharpshooter is topside, behind the billboard across the way."

"I am less intimidating outside of a battlesuit, at ease. I regret to say I was off-duty when the attack hit." The volus shrugged, but his eyes went hard. "I would be manning the battlements myself, otherwise. Has HQ given you further orders?"

"Just rally here and hold position. Wait for further instructions." The captain loosened slightly, but not of ease.

"The same as us. So, we have no higher priority for evac here even with your salarian friend?" The volus glanced at the STG soldier, who watched the proceedings with an eerie motionlessness. "A pity. The bank vaults are already stuffed full."

Tarquin took the time to glance at the rest of the bank lobby. While armored turians and volus alike manned the windows, distinctly unarmored volus hid behind the desks, tables, walls, and any other available cover, the round forms pressed as flat against the floor as they were able. Over the constant gunfire, Tarquin detected the distinct sound of prayer.

The Reapers offered another bass note from outside, making the building shake. Tarquin began to understand why the captain's shoulders slumped. _We're not high priority. And this is not a place one can run from. Time to dig in our heels. Die standing._

"We are at your disposal, sir," said the captain, voice still stiff and a little unconvincing. The major did not appear to notice.

"Man a window. Aim center mass – phasic rounds if you have them, they appear to have barriers. I am told they are weak to biotics…" he gave a meaningful glance to Priestess, who nodded.

"Wait here, shitheel." The salarian glared balefully at Priestess as she stood. "Vice, you packing phasic rounds?"

"Phasic? Do these things look like geth?" Tarquin could hardly hear Vice over the background roar of all too close combat. "No, I don't have any fucking phasic rounds, but I have all the rage in non-lethal and polonium ammunition! I think the last guy I shot actually laughed at me."

"Armor piercing, if you've got them." Priestess gave Tarquin a nod. He followed her to the nearest shattered window, its shards of glass sprayed with red.

"Note the shutters." Tarquin pointed to the upper portion of the window, where the lip of a steel shutter could just barely be seen. "We can lock this whole place down if they get too close."

"Let's not let them get too close," replied Priestess, aiming her own rifle downrange.

A blast of bass greeted her words. A shadow settled over the skyline, heralding the approach of another Reaper. Tarquin shut his eyes momentarily. The city's screams intensified.

"You warp, I'll shred," said Tarquin. "Light 'em up."

For a few seconds, Priestess fell still. Then, with a great heave of blue, she sent out the first in what would likely be many biotic pulses. One of the marines staggered at the hit, its armor melting and distorting at the impact, and Tarquin followed its every lurch with his crosshairs. He squeezed once. This time, the marine fell in a jerking motion, a marionette cut free of its strings.

"Confirmed kill." _Assuming these are alive._ Tarquin glanced briefly at Priestess, who nodded in approval. Then she pulled her hand back, readying the next pulse. _Right. I'll follow your lead._

The other soldiers clustered together in their own fire teams, shouting back and forth instructions, warnings, and muted panic. Occasionally, a sound like shattering glass would punctuate the din, usually followed by an unpleasant gurgle as bullets found flesh. Tarquin, for his part, barely felt a tickle.

"Keep firing!" called out the Major from somewhere behind them. "Concentrate on the closer targets, and keep those wounds hermetically sealed! We're not losing anyone to the damn pressure, today."

"It's raining fire," said Vice from where he remained perched. "Didn't know that was in the forecast."

Tarquin looked up. Vice did not exaggerate. Lenos's skylines always loomed slightly orange. Now they shone a slowly brightening red. And from that red rained great masses of metal, lit by the flames of atmospheric entry.

 _I don't think we're winning the orbit._ More streaks of orange shot across the horizon, leaving a bright after trail in Tarquin's retinas. They struck the earth with force, sending muffled shockwaves that made Tarquin's suit sensors jump. _Yep. They have established control._

"Enemy heavy infantry is now deploying from orbit," called out a soldier from below. "Uh, local forces seem to be thinning out, though."

Tarquin nodded. The stream of staggering marines now looked outright sluggish, only five popping up in his suit visor. Priestess lit one up, and he dropped it with two sharp bursts, sending one of its arms free in a spray of blue. _Coolant?_ No others looked like to replace it.

"Looks like we might have bought ourselves some breathing room," said the major, a hint of approval in his tone. "I still can't get anyone on the horn – I think the fleet might be in trouble."

The Reaper directly ahead of Tarquin adjusted two of its hind limbs … guns … whatever … bringing them free from its hull. _Couldn't imagine why the fleet might be in trouble._

"Lieutenant!" called out the captain, making Tarquin turn. "Get down here."

Priestess held position while Tarquin descended, limbs stiff under all the armor. The captain's armor still held a coat of dust from all the plaster and concrete the two of them had shaken loose during the bust, but his barriers looked to have held. His gun smoked lightly in his arms. The prisoner looked up from their knees, still oddly motionless.

Regis glanced at the prisoner before motioning Tarquin to follow him away from the salarian. Around then, the sound of gunfire became more sporadic, replaced by an oppressive quiet broken only by the moaning of the wounded and the whimpering of the innocent. The two of them settled in a quiet corner, dusted by a small patch of turian blood.

"I can't get ahold of HQ," said Regis, voice hushed. "Neither can the major. There's too many civilians, and we've still got a prisoner in tow."

"We do not improvise, sir," replied Tarquin, not sure where the captain was going with this. _What exactly is the plan in this situation?_

"I am aware, Lieutenant," growled Regis. "I've been listening to the local transmissions. The situation on the ground-"

The captain paused. Tarquin wished he could see what face he was making.

"We need to get out of here," said the captain, finally. "Those dreadnoughts are not just for show. Same tactics as us. They neutralize individual fire teams if they give too much trouble." The captain looked up to the windows. "I really do not like the way things just got quiet." He looked back to Tarquin. "So, we are leaving."

 _The civilians._

"I know, the civilians." Regis clapped Tarquin on the shoulder. "I'm sure Vice will have similar complaints. The ones in the vault should at least be safe. But we need to make tracks before…"

"You should warn the major."

"Have done. Will continue to do so." Regis nodded stiffly. "Stand by the salarian. I'll grab our Priestess. And…" The captain hesitated. "I know you were on our guy's ass at the time, but did you watch that weird transmission?"

"With the terran? Slipped my mind." Tarquin clenched his jaw. "What did it say?"

"That there aren't just two sides in this conflict, Lieutenant." The captain lifted three fingers. "It's Reapers. It's protoss, and those that stand with them. And then there's _him,_ the man who stole the Citadel with his hanar. And his own protoss."

"I'll look over it, if I get a chance." _Another day. A weird day. Hanar?_

The salarian looked up as Tarquin returned, his hands still tied behind his back. Even weaponless, his armor still cut an impressive figure. _Did we take his omnitool?_ They would need tools for that. Breaking it would mean losing out on too much intel.

"Lieutenant," said the salarian, surprising Tarquin. "I imagine the good captain has decided to move us."

"Standing still invites dreadnought fire." Tarquin clenched his jaw. _Would that we could take all these people with us._ "You're too valuable to lose."

"And these people are not." Did the salarian smirk underneath that mask? His tone remained even. "Unfortunate."

"Shut it."

"No, it's a strategic decision. I would make the same." The salarian sighed. "Well, in most circumstances. I think my value has diminished somewhat, given current circumstances."

"I said shut it!"

"Why?" The salarian had to be smirking by now. Tarquin could just barely make out the bastard's eyes behind the mask. "The world is ending around us. As far as I can see, there are only two sides to take. And the STG is not with the Reapers."

"Three sides," muttered Tarquin.

"Three?" The salarian cocked his head. "Turians, salarians, and Reapers? Lieutenant, please don't-"

"No." Tarquin clenched his jaw again, teeth straining beneath the pressure. "Us. Them. And the guy who stole the Citadel, apparently."

"Ah. That third party." The salarian chewed on Tarquin's words for a moment in a mercifully quiet fashion. "So, he is not with the Reapers?"

"Enough!" Tarquin crouched down to the salarian's level, gun barrel resting against his knee. "You shut your whoreson mouth, all right? What are you trying to say here? That you're just a terrorist, not as bad as the Reapers?"

"Precisely." The salarian stared back, shameless and unafraid. "I am willing to turn over all relevant data on my omnitool in exchange for my freedom. I have ways off the planet, and Sur'Kesh must know what has happened here. They must join the fight without reservation."

"On whose side?" asked Tarquin, bringing his face inches from the salarian's.

The salarian remained quiet a moment.

"Not. Theirs."

"Saddle up!" The captain trotted back, Priestess just behind. "Lieutenant? Everything all right?"

"Bastard's trying to argue his freedom." Tarquin stood up, turning his back to the prisoner. "Trying to use the apocalypse as an excuse for leniency."

"As far as excuses go, it's not bad." Regis lifted the salarian by the armpit with a single finger. The salarian glared at him dolefully. "Come on. We need to stay on the move, do some damage on the way."

"Is the major budging?" asked Tarquin, heart thudding.

Regis stopped, head bowed. "Can't. Just have to hold and pray. Maybe they'll get lucky."

"Luck does not seem in plentiful supply today, sir," said Priestess, gently.

Regis did not answer this.

"Vice! We're moving. Follow our lead and cover our advance, we're heading north."

"Captain?" Vice' voice trembled. "Don't mean to alarm you, but the Reaper just pointed at us like we owe it money."

Tarquin's heart began to hum.

"Out! Out! Everybody, we gotta-"

It was if the Reaper heard them. For a horrible moment, it felt like all sound and air were sucked out of the room as something bright flashed through the walls. Then the bank burst into flames.

Tarquin's suit screamed at the force of the explosion, which sent him flying and turned the world into a confused blizzard of tangled limbs and stray bricks. His back slammed into something hard, knocking the air out of him even through the suit's cushioning. Even through the impact he kept pinwheeling, his body little more than a sentient bit of debris cast about by a malevolent whirlwind. Even through the suit, the inertia became too much, and Tarquin's brain gave up making sense of things for a spell.

Tarquin's vision took a long time to clear. _Probably not a good sign._ When he first opened his eyes, everything remained dark. _Blind?_ His heart began to beat faster. But – no. Light poured through the cracks above. _No, not blind. Just buried._ For some reason, this did not calm him much. The suit HUD flickered into life at his strained movements.

Tarquin's suit still muttered reports to him about "fractured outer canopy" this and "severe motor damage" that, but he could still feel his limbs. They all hurt. He still breathed. That also hurt. The hands on his suit flexed. He reached out for the light. Rubble rolled down the contours of his suit.

"...Victus … boss…" Vice's words echoed weakly through the helmet. _So, one of us is still alive._ Gunshots and screams ricocheted through the confined space of the crushed up rocks. Tarquin stirred, but could move nothing out of the way.

"…lifesigns…"

"Here," croaked Tarquin, stirring weakly.

"Here," said another voice, higher. A shadow passed over the cracks. A mask pressed an eyehole to the inside. "Lifesigns positive."

"Then dig him out!"

The rocks parted, lifted by a shimmering web of energy. The salarian, still unarmed, still clad in armor, now badly burnt, shifted the rocks from Tarquin's face with his omnitool.

"Hmm. Impressive piece of kit." The salarian darted in nimbly, hands reaching with surprising strength at the rocks around Tarquin's torso. With a bit of wiggling, they came loose. The salarian reached out his hand. Tarquin took it, rising up towards the red skies. "What does it take to crack a fat falcon, exactly?"

"More than they've got. How the fuck did you survive?"

"STG does not skimp on barriers, Lieutenant." The salarian still maintained that curious stillness. Spirits knew the bastard could motor when he wanted to. "We were quite far from the initial blast radius, mercifully."

Tarquin prepared to spit, only to remember he was wearing a damn helmet. He looked around. "Not much of a bank left. Or a street." _Or a city._

The rough shape of where the bank once stood could still be made out, barely. One of the walls still stood upright, even scorched as it was. The rest … just a jumbled framework.

The rest of the plaza fared little better. The streets ran with molten gravel in places, making the air smell even fouler from the fumes. The ground underfoot felt unstable, shifting as he moved his feet. He would have to balance his weight carefully.

Tarquin looked behind him. From behind the still intact billboard, just beyond the reach of the total destruction, Vice waved airily with one hand, rifle still in the other.

"Hey, Lieutenant." Vice didn't sound quite as jocular as normal. "Good to see you're still in one ornery piece. Sorry about the salarian – he offered to help if I got those bonds loose. I know he was shooting at me with a grenade launcher earlier, but I wasn't liking my odds alone."

"The others?" Tarquin checked the vital signs of his fellow squadmates. _Out of range?_

"No idea. Blown clear, maybe?" Vice didn't sound hopeful. "You were the only one I could get a read on, so, here we are. Looks like you lost your gun."

Tarquin examined his massive armored hands, now cracked and peeling all over. "Yeah. Stuck with just the fists, I guess."

"Not to worry. I got your ass covered."

"And I'll cover the rest of you," said the salarian, wryly. He pointed to the southwest. "We may want to move."

The Reaper still loomed over all, making Tarquin wonder if it looked down on the carnage the same way a child might loom over an insect mound they had just kicked over. Beneath it, crawling from its shadow, the strange marines returned, loosing distorted electronic bellows. The first lifted a warped hand-turned-gun. Its head promptly exploded.

"You owe me a drink." Vice laughed lightly. His gun cracked again. "Two drinks!" Again. This time the marine staggered but did not slow. "Uh. Two and a half. May I recommend a retreat?"

Tarquin nodded and motioned for the salarian to follow. The salarian tapped his omnitool and sent a surge of energy to his barriers before sticking to Tarquin like a shadow. Up high, Vice kicked in his jets and went flying to the next rooftop. The rubble and slag gave way to battle-scarred but still serviceable streets.

"How we doing?" asked Tarquin, trying to keep an eye on his surroundings as he ran from alleyway to alleyway, keeping a lookout for any signs of life. "We started winning yet? How long was I out?"

"Half an hour. I took a listen through local frequencies. Short answer, no. Long answer, fuck no. Local defense forces are getting blown apart. We need reinforcements or this space is lost."

"It's not just here, Lieutenant," said the salarian from behind him. "Batarian space is under assault as well. It appears Palaven has been hit, also."

"How do you know that?" growled Tarquin.

"Rewatched that little Duran broadcast. It came at an inopportune time, did it not? Mid chase? I wish I had stopped. It was a historic moment, and we both missed it." The salarian chuckled.

"Yeah, well I'm glad I nailed your terrorist ass."

"That was actually the sniper, Lieutenant. You just scraped me off the floor, after."

"Whatever." Tarquin poked his head out the alleyway, then let his body follow. He continued down one more block before stopping, ducking behind a large public restroom stall. The salarian followed in an almost languid fashion. "So, Vice, we getting those reinforcements?"

"That was the last thing HQ said," replied Vice. Tarquin could not see where he was at the moment. "They were, uh, unspecific as to "who" and "where." Then they went all silent. Might have been lying to make us feel better about dying bathed in ammonia."

"That doesn't seem like high command's way. Definitely not General Desolas's style." _Dad always had such a high opinion of that man. He would not let us down if there were any alternatives._

"If General Desolas promised reinforcements, then I expect you will get reinforcements," said the salarian. "It is simply up to us to live long enough to see them."

"Right," said Tarquin, not thrilled to be agreeing with his prisoner. _He hasn't tried to run…_

"Got movement up ahead," said Vice, voice becoming clipped and urgent. "Uh, looks like the 22nd. Not a lot of them, mind. Might want to make yourself heard before seen, Lieutenant, they've been shooting at a lot of guys your size today."

"Friendlies!" bellowed Tarquin, walking slowly from behind the public rest room. Up ahead, on an overpass, several heads swiveled in his direction, guns turning with them. "Friendlies!"

"We got a heavy infantry and … salarian, to the east." The turians waved down at him, rifles dangling from slings. "Get up here!"

For Tarquin, it would just be a matter of applying what servomotors he had left and jumping. For the salarian … Tarquin rolled his eyes and scooped the salarian up.

"Hold on."

Tarquin applied the boost neatly and landed before a convoy of soot-covered turians, some of whom looked like they could only stare through him rather than at him. It took Tarquin to realize what was actually happening. _Staring at the Reaper. Only the Reaper._

"Who's in charge here?" asked Tarquin, letting the salarian slide from his arms. The men only stared blankly at him for a moment. "The skies are dead. Have we given up on air support?"

"Second Lieutenant Kellin, sir." A turian strode to the front of the group. "Currently in command of the 22nd. Air support is a no go, their GARDIAN equivalents have neutralized all our fliers."

 _A second lieutenant in command of an entire regiment?_ Tarquin took a quick look at the ranks. _Well, what's left of one._ A group of similarly charred looking volus huddled near the back, cradling items to their chest.

"Orbital support is a no go. All combined arms and armored units have been targeted and neutralized by the dreadnoughts. All hardpoints have been destroyed." The lieutenant cleared his throat. "Enemy heavy infantry have stormed the city but are not actively engaging anyone. To be honest, it feels more like they're corralling people. They're pursuing us, but only fire when fired upon."

"Skies have turned red," murmured a corporal from behind the lieutenant. The lieutenant fiddled with the ammo settings on his gun, hands shaking. He nodded without saying anything.

Tarquin looked up. The skies indeed now bloomed a livid crimson, with heavy black clouds gathering on the horizon, centered on each of the three gently swaying ships that now latched to the city.

"I'm getting anomalous readings," reported the salarian, making Lieutenant Krellin start in surprise. The salarian fiddled with his omnitool without looking up. "Build up of static discharge … something is happening. Those Reapers are doing something."

"Air is humid," said the salarian, finally looking up from his omnitool. "Storm."

"Are they controlling the fucking weather now?" asked a sergeant, thrusting his rifle barrel up at the air like he could puncture the sky.

"Storms," muttered Tarquin, pointing up at the peak of the closest Reaper. The Reaper shuddered once, making the air distort around it. Lightning crackled around it, brilliant and searing. Tarquin turned to the assembled group. "We don't want to sit on top of this thing right now!"

Thunder boomed, making Tarquin's heart jump in his chest at the sheer bass of it. Close, close enough to trigger a rush of endorphins as his body realized it was at risk.

"Move!"

The Reapers pulsed again. This time Tarquin felt it, the pressure in the air dialing up a notch at the Reaper's behest, whatever it was. Tarquin prepared to run, only for his fringe to chill when he heard something behind him, shrill and alien. He'd heard it earlier. Volus children.

The salarian looked up to him, almost as if asking he was going to get another ride to … wherever the hell they were going to get out of the weather. Tarquin looked back at the volus bringing up the rear, families some of them. _Eh, fuck the mission. Cap isn't here to see this._

"You've got legs, use them!" Tarquin took off at a trot and made the volus freeze in fear. He lowered one of his arms. "Climb on, I'll carry all of you I can."

Turians might disparage volus bravery while in their cups, and Tarquin might have been one of them, a time or two, but he saw no hesitation as the adults ushered the children up and on to his shoulders and back, clinging to whatever they could. Tarquin remained deaf to their tearful thanks, instead focusing on how to stand upright without sending volus children scattering in all directions.

After a few seconds, a hunched over turian joined the convoy of retreating soldiers, several children clinging to him for dear life.

"You picked up some ablative armor, Lieutenant?" Vice asked. "Anything to improve our odds of survival, right?"

"Right," grunted Tarquin. He heard Vice's jets in the distance and figured the bastard was keeping pace. "See those storms? You don't want to be on any rooftops in a few minutes."

"I got eyes, sir," snorted Vice. "I'll be down in the dirt in a minute. Try not to catch any bullets with those guys riding on you, yeah?"

"I dunno, they seem like fighters." Tarquin shifted his shoulder, making one of the volus shriek in what might have been delight. They seemed to be clinging on okay. _Please don't fall off, please don't fall off, please don't fall off…_

"Here!" called out Krellin, motioning for people to come through. "Subway tunnels, here!" Likely despite himself, Krellin still broke into a wide grin as Tarquin approached, covered head to toe in children.

"I'm not doing stairs with you guys," said Tarquin, feeling a surge of relief. "Off, everyone get off."

The children slid into their parent's arms and down the stairs, into the safe dark. Tarquin heard Vice's jets again, and the sniper landed before them, one of his hands landing in the dust to steady himself.

"Movement to the east and southeast," he said to the lieutenant, by way of greeting. "We do not improvise. Recommend fortifying this location."

Thunder boomed overhead, and it made Tarquin's head hurt, and not just from the pressure. Something was _wrong._

"Whatever they're doing is giving me a killer headache, sir," complained Vice, lightly touching the temple of his mask. "I'm getting below."

"You should, too," said Tarquin to the lieutenant. Krellin nodded and descended, bellowing instructions to his men waiting at the first landing. Out of the darkness, the salarian sidled up to Tarquin, who gave the man a stiff nod before turning to look up at the skies. The Reapers were just twitching silhouettes now, framed against the roiling crimson.

"Anomalous energy buildup," said the salarian. "If I had to hazard a guess, given our own research-"

The lightning flashed into the sky, but this time it did not fade. It instead churned, becoming a whirlpool of crackling energy above the city, a violently dazzling wreath. Tarquin's mandibles hung loose in shock.

"Psi storm," said Tarquin, who had been privy to a few intelligence briefings of his own. "Like the protoss."

"Like the protoss," agreed the salarian, "but I think a difference or three in orders of magnitude." Tarquin felt a tug at his elbow. "Below, I think. Now."

"Yeah."

Tarquin took the steps three at a time – a necessity given his armor. His suit beeped warnings about static electricity as he descended. Above, the wind began to scream. Like water being brought to a boil, the entire city felt ready to burn-

 _No._ Tarquin paused, a chill running through his spine. _To become steam. Rising up._

The 22nd huddled together with their hands to their ears and foreheads. The volus took cover in ticket booths or inside the restrooms, moaning softly in pain. Far above, barely muted by the feet of solid concrete between them, the wind shrieked like a man about to die, broken only by booms like cannon fire, the thunder clapping with enough force to shake the earth.

Tarquin staggered to Vice, who looked up at the stairs dully, not fully comprehending what was going on.

"Spots behind the eyes," he said. "Sharp pain in temple. Limbs feel stretched out. Vision's blurring…"

Tarquin did not quite feel that way. Stars popped in and out of his vision, but the pain remained a dull throb. His ears popped twice as the wind picked up even further. Light flashed red from above. Children screamed.

"Become," called out someone, voice monotone.

"Become," agreed another. Tarquin turned around, staring at the shadows that now rose from the floor, arms outstretched, weapons cast aside.

"It is time! Become!"

A boom like dreadnought fire. Everything flashed crimson, impossibly Red. The figures, all framed against the light from the staircase, seared their way into Tarquin's brain. Then everything went black, as the light all went out.

In that black, Tarquin lost himself, for a time. Thought and reason fled at the advance of the storm, so he went deeper inside himself, to an old place. His dad was there, preparing breakfast. He wasn't general yet, but the Primarch had been floating the idea. He looked up as Tarquin padded down the stairs.

"Licked," he said, washing his hands of the blood. "All that talk of no retreat, not losing an inch, and we were licked."

Tarquin sat down at the table, feeling strangely ashamed of himself. His father cocked his head.

"Not your fault, is it? You never expected to play civil defense." His father set a steaming bowl of meat in front of Tarquin. "Point is to learn. And remember. Every fight you walk away from: what weaknesses did you see? And how were you able to walk away from it?"

"Should have rammed them," said Tarquin, feeling instantly ashamed at the joke. The man who would be General Adrien Victus only twitched his mandibles in amusement.

"Perhaps. Shaking those things loose from the earth would seem to be a priority." His father frowned and sat at the table. "This is the initial shock, and volus space has always been soft. You'll recover. And then?"

"Riposte." Tarquin nodded. The meat tasted of ash and blood, but he didn't want to disappoint his father. "When I got up today, I thought I would be kicking ass."

"But it's just another day," said his father, looking sad. "This is not your moment. You'll know it, when it is. You won't flinch, either."

Tarquin nodded again. He laid his fork down at the side of his plate.

"You're dead, and this food tastes like shit."

The man who would become scattered atoms on Thessia laughed and stood, eyes shining a bright blue.

"You're alive. Go find your moment."

Tarquin shuddered once, and then stirred. A protoss stared down at him, armored in gold.

"More turians still live!" boomed out the protoss, extending a clawed hand. Tarquin took it without thinking, his own mind still filled with stars. "Such thick armor – enforced against psionics?"

"To the best of our ability," muttered Tarquin, hoisted to his feet easily by the protoss and trying not to dwell on it.

"Reegar! This one is alive!"

A quarian, taller than Tarquin remembered them being, approached from where most of the turians once huddled. Now, there were only scattered pieces of armor, empty even of dust.

"Blackwatch, same as the other one. Lucky man." The quarian looked Tarquin up and down. "Lieutenant…?"

"Victus," gasped Tarquin. "Venture One-One. Are there any other survivors?"

"Yeah. More of your guys, plus the salarian that flagged us down." Reegar gestured to a corner. Tarquin looked over, bleary-eyed. The salarian sat cross-legged in a corner, looking at Tarquin intently. "He one of yours?"

"He flagged you down?" Tarquin watched the salarian, who made no move to speak.

"Yep. Said he had wounded. Major Kirrahe, STG. Wouldn't say much else." Reegar shrugged. "Their type usually don't."

"He's not with us," said Tarquin, mandibles shifting, "but he has been a help. Keeps digging me out of the rubble. He needs transport back to Sur'Kesh."

"Maetus?" Reegar asked. The protoss clapped a hand to his chest.

"I shall make the arrangements!"

"We're with the DUAS," said Reegar, leading Tarquin up towards the stairs. "Doing evac. Looks like you guys went through a swift hell. What happened?"

"Psi storm." Tarquin looked down at his hands. "The children, we had-"

Reegar just shook his head. "This ain't been a good day."

They reached the top of the stairs. A battlecruiser hung in low orbit, the skies around it completely clear. The city made no sound, aside from the sudden hum of engines as a shuttle descended from the terran vessel.

"Fighting's gone elsewhere, where the protoss are at," said Reegar. "We'll be there too, soon enough. Irune ain't lost, but this city sure is."

"Survivors," said Tarquin, staring up at the heavens, head still pounding. "How many?"

Reegar put his hands on his hips and sighed.

"Well, with your three guys, that brings us up into the double digits at last. Hate to say it, Lieutenant, but I think this is what a defeat looks like."

* * *

 **Next Chapter: James**

 **A/N: Not happy with this chapter. Sorry about the delay.**


	7. Marshal

**James**

Through the window, the skies above Constant buzzed with furious activity, a far cry from the empty carnage just a few days before. The air pulsed with the burning of ship engines, and the ground beneath Jim's feet trembled at all the movement. The hastily rebuilt starport of Constant was the beating heart of this chaos. A thick and steady train of ships waited above it for admittance, most of them unarmed. Occasionally, one would be diverted by a militia vessel to the fields outside town. Most just waited above. Until now, Jim didn't know a vessel could be flown anxiously.

"No translator on this one either," said Declan, voice thick with frustration. He gesticulated to the smaller batarian sitting before them, whose two hands were clasped in prayer. While the batarian's inner eyes focused on Declan, his outer set of eyes remained tightly shut. "If you aren't Merchant, Soldier, or Noble, the Hegemony never saw much reason for its people to talk to aliens."

"Please, House Kirai willy pay handsomely for my family's wellbeing," said the batarian, his voice sounding oddly accented even to Jim's translator. "There are sixteen of us, enough to take care of an entire household. We are skilled laborers, and familiar with terran prefab constructs like the Morians brought us-"

"Tell him he ain't at risk of being sent back out," said Jim, wishing he could console the man directly. Declan complied, making the batarian open the rest of his eyes. "Tell him I just want to know what happened."

"I was tending the Kirai Estate's gardens on Khar'Shan," said the batarian, a small amount of foam gathering at the corner of his mouth. "My omnitool beeped, and this ghastly image of a terran appeared. It started talking about the end of the world."

"Yeah." Jim stared down at his lap. His new metal leg stared back at him. "Duran." _He didn't mention Miranda … where the hell is she?_ Declan translated Jim's words, making Jim roll his eyes.

"He said his name was not Duran, but I never knew a Duran to begin with!" The batarian leaned forward, wrists pressed hard against the table. "He said we all had to fight, and he wanted the zerg and protoss. And I thought, well, good luck with the protoss, they sorted our civil war pretty quickly. And then there was great shadow, and the radio – I was listening to a radio, just music, you know – started saying that the Bahak System was gone, just gone … and then I looked up."

The batarian paused. Then his palms slapped together and his eyes jammed tightly shut.

"There was this ship, enormous, and it looked … alive? I never saw a ship with legs before. And I swear, it, it saw me!"

"That was a Reaper," said Declan, glancing at Jim. "We've heard this story a few times already today. How did you escape?"

The batarian bit his lip.

"The Estate was fitted with emergency escape craft – shuttles with moderate galactic reach. Since the protoss occupation, the Kirai family was concerned with being able to make a swift getaway if there were ever any reason to leave the planet in a hurry. I … I contacted my family and commandeered the first ship I could reach."

"Please." The batarian opened his eyes and reached out, resting an open hand on top of the table. "I just wanted to get us all out. We were supposed to wait … but we heard screaming. And the protoss, we saw their ships on fire, we saw the Hegemony's ships on fire. We couldn't stay. We took in six others while we waited … but we left others behind."

"Tell him we ain't gonna fault a father's judgement when his kids are on board." Declan complied. A bit of red returned to the batarian's face. "Tell him Eden Prime's got vast plains and plenty of real estate. Dunno how long he'll have to stay, just tell him it'll be for the duration."

 _The duration._ Matt Horner had advised he use that phrase. _No idea if the war will go long or go short, burn hot or cold, but best make plans for both. The duration, Jim. Try to sound reasonable._

"There are few words I can find that fully express my gratitude." The batarian bowed his head. "May your days be long, your children many, and your generosity answered in kind."

"Send him through." Jim jerked a thumb back to the door. Declan barked a short order to the smaller batarian, who practically leapt from his chair. Heavy footsteps heralded their exit. Jim took the time to stare out the window again. The dust from the UED invasion had just settled, and now the updraft from the ships was kicking it up again.

 _And how many are waiting in orbit?_ Jim frowned and stroked at his beard, a headache beginning to build behind his eyes. _That's Matt's concern, not mine._

And how long would that last? Technically, processing refugees should not be a marshal's concern, either. But they were short on hands courtesy of the UED … and there was that other thing.

"Jim?" Declan's voice shook slightly from outside the room. "Need you here. Now." Jim grimaced and rose.

Part of him had initially thought that having a new leg would be just like having the old one. Put one foot in front of the other, repeat, walk out the door. But really, it was like having a huge hunk of stone dangling from what was left of his thigh, heavy and stiff. When he stood, the false knee bent half a second after his regular knee, and his foot scraped across the floor, making him grit his teeth.

Jim stood uneasily, most of his weight on his regular leg, which already ached from the overuse over the past week. He shuffled to the door, hoping Declan had a good reason for making him suffer.

Jim pushed open the door. The starport security checkpoint blasted him with noise. Batarians jostled against each other, most of them grouped together in clumps despite repeated requests for two single file lines. Terrans and asari in power armor waited at each checkpoint, flanking their smaller counterparts who looked over what little paperwork there was to be had. _Most of 'em are just lucky to have the clothes on their backs…_

Jim tore his eyes from the mass of anxiety stretched before him and looked to Declan. Declan grimaced and stood to the side, slightly. A shock of red hair greeted him. Jim felt an old lurch in his stomach. A bitter mix of guilt and defensiveness rose up from inside him.

"Hey, Jim." Sarah Kerrigan stared up at him, and likely through him as well. If Jim could not see her face, he might not have recognized her; she so rarely took off her ghost armor in public. Sarah wore a loose brown coat and slacks that would not have looked out of place on any of the terran refugees they had picked up in the last few days. If she wore a gun, she was hiding it well.

"Hey, Sarah." Jim felt his face redden. _I don't need this today. Last I heard, she was in prison._ He gestured to the door. "Yeah, we'll need to get you properly processed. Got your Spectre paperwork?"

"No. I didn't have time." Sarah shrugged. "It was revoked anyway, while they got … while they got everything sorted out. Figured you'd want a debrief." She made for the door with a stiff swiftness.

"That, and I'd like to make sure you're okay." Jim thought Sarah almost missed a step at that. _Yeah, darlin', people still care about you._ "Declan, I'm sure someone else is gonna need your translatin'."

"That's what the SIU is known for," said Declan glumly, slouching off back to the checkpoint. He clapped a hand on Jim's shoulder, making Jim wince as it put more weight on his false leg. "Good luck, _keram._ "

"Yeah." Jim closed the door behind him with a smart snap. Sarah had already sat down at the close end of the table. She watched him shuffle awkwardly to the other end, something which took longer than Jim would have liked, even without her staring at him. He sat down, feeling a twinge of relief in his right leg.

"It took Saren quite a while to adjust to his new arm," said Sarah, her affect completely flat. "You weren't there for that. He would curse it daily, didn't believe he'd ever be able to channel biotics through it like the doctors said." Sarah met Jim's eyes. "But he did. Give it time, you'll forget what the old leg felt like. And you'll be able to really dent someone's shins if you feel a need for it."

"That's what Buck keeps saying," muttered Jim, casting a quick glance down at his leg. It didn't shake when he was bored. It didn't feel warm. It didn't tense up after a long day. It was just a slab of metal, strapped to a ragged stump…

"You don't believe me. But you will." Sarah's cheek twitched, her lips dancing between a small and very forced smile, and a hard line. "I hope you'll believe the rest. I came here from the Citadel."

"Right." Jim rested his forearms on the table, leaned forward a bit more than he would have before the amputation, feeling the weight on his shoulders. "You were still in lock up?"

"Yeah." Sarah couldn't quite meet his eyes for a moment. "I … I deserved to be in there, with the Nerazim watching me. Then the attack hit, and they left right away. The protoss – I mean, they're sanctimonious, but the minute people were in danger, they left me where I was to defend the Citadel and its people."

"Sounds like them." Jim waited for Sarah to continue.

"Couldn't escape. Protoss left some kind of nullifier. I heard a lot of gunfire … but worse was what I could feel. Something coming. Something … hungry. I might not have been able to read anyone's minds while I was in prison, but I could still sense general emotions. But this was just … empty."

"Duran." Jim waited for the nod from Sarah. He got it.

"Saren got inside before they did. Cornered himself in the process, but he turned off the device and opened the cell. Made for the closest docking bay and got on one of the last shuttles leaving." Sarah folded her arms across her chest, making her look smaller than Jim could ever remember.

"It was odd. There was enemy presence all around the hangar, but they didn't shoot a single civilian ship down. Once we were clear, the Citadel vanished. Mass recall, I guess. The enemy fleet left with it."

"What did you see?" asked Jim, leaning forward a little further. "Was Duran telling the truth? Hanar? And … hybrid?"

"Hanar, drell, and some kind of protoss." Sarah closed her eyes, thinking. "It's … hard to define, but minds feel different. Khalai all have this same ball of fire to them, and this mass of echoes. The racial gestalt I guess. They're loud. Nerazim are all different, but … quiet. Smooth. There's a certain stillness to them that I only feel in … I don't know. Asari matriarchs and the like." Sarah bit her lip. There was a certain redness to her eyes. Jim didn't think she'd been crying … it was just exhaustion.

"Those new protoss … Tal'Darim? They felt … spiky. I read their minds and they would know I was reading their minds and they would just latch on, like a sticky burr. You know what those are?"

"Seeds," said Jim, remembering pulling them off his socks way back when as a kid, wincing as they latched on to his thumb and drew blood. "Hook on to you. Pain in the ass."

"Yeah. They'd hook on, and it'd _hurt_ , and prying yourself away hurt, and I could tell they … enjoyed it. There was just this visceral satisfaction to what they were doing. Nerazim are calm and collected, even when fighting, most of the time. Khalai, you know what they're like. This was something else. Haven't felt anything like it since the zerg, where reaching out made them sit up and notice you. And drool."

"They don't sound like good guys," said Jim, heart sinking. "Wish I could get ahold of, I don't know, Zeratul, ask 'em about these things. Probably have some legend about 'em and the end times. Protoss tend to have legends about these kinds of things." Jim drummed his fingers on the table. "And the hanar?"

Sarah rubbed her eyes, sighing. "They were ecstatic, Jim. I've never seen anything like it. Never had a good read on those guys, but they were rapturous. This was what they've been waiting for, all these years. I could sense vindication and triumph-"

"How exactly were they fighting?" asked Jim patiently, knowing that with a ghost, and Sarah especially, the weapons were sometimes an afterthought, since they were so easily swept aside.

"Aquatic exosuits with separately-linked mounted weaponry. Four guns. Heavy barriers. They weren't sending the drell to do all the fighting for them, Jim. I saw them on the battlefield engaging four different targets at once while … singing. Loudly."

"Glad to hear they ain't given up on being weird, even with times being what they are." Jim leaned back, folding his own arms and looking down at Sarah. "Hybrids?"

"I didn't see any of those." Sarah shrugged. "But I felt them. Hungry. Yearning. Silent. If Duran has dredged up some ancient weapon to fight Reapers, well, they're beyond my comprehension. I did get a sense of age, though. But most of it was drowned out by the Tal'Darim. And battle poetry."

"And you?" asked Jim, cocking an eyebrow. It took Sarah a second to realize what he meant.

"I'm … fine. I'm okay." Sarah didn't quite meet his eyes as she said this. "I mean … I've been having trouble sleeping. And I'm worried about, um, everything. But I'm fine."

"And what happened with Garrus was an accident?" asked Jim, as gently as he could manage. _Cameras are watching, darlin'. I am a marshal._ Sarah looked up, red in the face.

"I would never have hurt him, Jim. Not on purpose."

"Right." Jim nodded, feeling various parts of him twinge at that. "Just … making sure. I imagine the Council's gonna want us to turn you over at some point, assumin' the bigger problems end up dealt with." Jim smiled. "And they will, right? We've survived worse than this." _…right?_

"The mother of all wars is upon us, Jim." Sarah opened her mouth to say something else, but instead paused, tensed, and stood up, her chair almost falling over. "Just felt a huge surge of fear from your comsat station. Battlecruisers in high orbit. Unknown signature."

"Battlecruisers?" Jim lifted his arm and began tapping his omnitool. With a few deft key presses he keyed into Matt's frequency.

"Matt?"

"Battlecruisers!" said Matt, breathless, a hurricane of voices raging in the background. "Unknown signature!"

"Yeah, I got that," said Jim, chuckling. "Got an old friend with me, who I imagine would like to see you." He gave Sarah a small thumbs up. It was not returned. "Well, only so many people it could be, Matt. UED don't seem likely, and Dominion got no reason to come this way. Protectorate or Combine?"

Jim heard Matt's breathing, but got no response. He glanced at Sarah, whose face remained red.

"Cerberus," she said, and the pieces clicked into place.

"Matt," said Jim, the resignation already creeping in, "it's Cerberus. I think they finally come for me." _First they send Tychus, now they send … hell, maybe the Magistrate himself?_

"Cerberus?" Matt sounded doubtful. The voices behind him subsided. "Should we expect trouble? We're still on good terms with Harper, right?"

"Last I checked." Jim rose from his seat, leg still aching, and motioned for Sarah to follow. _They're gonna wanna know she's here._ "Nah, they're gonna give us the old spiel, Matt. Plenty of vets to recruit here on Eden Prime, folks from the Great War what Harper thinks owe him. You and me, Buck, Jenny … most of the Raiders, really." _Shame we're down Norad II. Can't do too much without a damn flagship._ Still, it made the corners of Jim's mouth twitch. _Try and pull me in again? Too old, this time. Too broken down. Raiders found a home…_

"We both know you're not going to sit this out, Jim," said Sarah from behind him, her last word diluted as Jim opened the door and the background noise of countless confused batarians filled the room.

"I only got so many legs left to give, darlin'," replied Jim, trying to sound light-hearted. "Yeah, there's a galaxy full of fight out there right now, but I got plenty of ways of makin' my mark. Cerberus is one of the…" Jim searched for the right word. "…uh, intense, ways of making the galaxy a better place." He stared out over the huddled masses before him. Eden Prime residents to be. "This place needs a marshal."

"And the galaxy doesn't?"

They shouldered their way through the presses of people, Sarah looking almost innocuous next to Jim, with the beard and the metal leg. The batarians certainly did not look at Sarah with anywhere near the same level of anxiety. _They'll learn._

Workers crowded the short tube to the control tower, most of them glued to their omnitools as they half-ran to the runway, prepping for the next landing. Farther down the hallway, the sounds of barely comprehensible control-tower speak rattled down the metal corridor. _Christ, that's a job I'm happy not to have._

"I don't understand it either, Jim," said Sarah, wincing as he looked at her. "It's … it's actually giving me a headache."

"Matt!" bellowed Jim as he strode in, only to get several dirty looks from men and women wearing headsets. "Eh, sorry. Matt. Matt."

From the second level of the tower, up a short metal staircase, a single hand waved them over. Jim followed it, mouthing apologies at the air control personnel. None of them paid him any more mind, however. Sarah followed close behind him. _…forgot what she smelled like._

"Jim," said Matt as he approached, one arm still in a sling. His eyes were glued to the console, and he did not turn as Jim stood next to him, Sarah almost hiding behind him. "Nine battlecruisers, high orbit. They're not budging. Refugee vessels are in a bit of a panic. I'm trying to patch us in…" Matt adjusted his headset with his one good hand before finally looking behind him. His eyes glanced over Sarah briefly before going back to Jim. Then they snapped back to the ghost.

"Oh." For a moment, Matt just furrowed his brow, a small trickle of sweat materializing on his forehead. Then he removed his headset, stood, and extended his hand.

"Sarah. Good to see you escaped the Citadel, ma'am."

"Matt." Sarah took his hand. "How's the wife?" Jim looked away, biting his lip. Matt coughed once.

"We don't talk about the wife, Lieutenant. Do I want to know how you heard about that?"

"Spectres have ways." She released her grip. "Your arm … you're lucky to have gotten away with just that. You should know better than to ram other ships, Captain."

"Admiral, now. And I was having a bad day. It was crash to the ground and maybe take the UED with me, or just … crash." Matt shot a questioning look at Jim, who raised his hands in supplication. _No, I didn't know she was coming. Yeah, it might make things more complicated._

"Anyway – Cerberus." Matt pointed to the console, which flashed. "Um, looks like they want a word." He looked back to Jim. "How do we want to play this, Jim? They're scaring innocent people, and I'm sure they have better places to be than here."

"We'll play it like we always play it, Matt." Jim folded his arms. "Fast and loose. They help us, we help them, so long as they stay on the level. But yeah, let's figure out what the hell they want and how we can get them to leave." _Where the hell's Miranda, Harper, if you're up there?_ Jim felt a chill as static rose from the console, the viewscreen flickering into life. _Nine battlecruisers. They're gonna bring war with them …_ Jim felt a squeeze at his shoulder, light but reassuring. Sarah's hand. He didn't know how to react, so he didn't.

"…CSV Undertaker to Constant control tower, come in, Constant." A helmsman, his cap a mixture of black and white, the gold symbol of Cerberus at its center. "Ah, Constant, we have a visual, this is Confederate Service Vessel Undertaker. How copy, over?"

"This is Admiral Matt Horner of the Independent Terran Systems Alliance," replied Matt, injecting an impressive amount of authority into his voice. _I always forget he can play the hardass when he wants to._ "Confederate Service Vessel? Spare me the games, Undertaker, we know you're with Cerberus. I want to know what the hell you're doing here, and why you feel it is necessary to harass innocent civilian vessels."

"Confederate Service Vessel is still this ship's official service designation, Admiral," replied the helmsman. Jim caught something unsettling in his eyes. _That ain't anxiety. It's fear._ "We have established our current orbit because we desperately need to resupply and repair our vessels. CSV Jokulhaup and CSV Monsoon are badly damaged, and the rest of our battle fleet is little better. This is the only terran port of harbor this side of Relay 118."

"They're runnin'." Jim shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. _How long do we have before the enemy gets here, then?_

"Is that … Jim Raynor?" The helmsman craned his neck, trying to somehow look around his side of the screen. "Uh, General?"

"Yes, yes, get out of the way." The helmsman vacated his seat with impressive speed while a figure all in white replaced him, his black shoulder pads ridged with gold. A face with an impeccable black goatee stared back at them. _Ah. Right. Back from the Terminus._

"General Petrovsky," said Matt, inclining his head. "An unexpected … uh, it's just unexpected."

"Mr. Raynor," said Oleg, paying Matt no mind, "if you would kindly join the good admiral on the viewscreen, I would like to speak to you both." Matt glanced helplessly back at Jim, who felt something bump against his leg. Jim looked up to see half the control tower staring at him, and a rolling chair resting neatly against his thigh. The air traffic controllers all gave him an expectant look.

"Ya'll need to learn some privacy," grumbled Jim, planting himself on the chair and scooting where Oleg could see him. "Good to see you in on piece, General."

"A very mutual feeling." Oleg finally gave Matt a searching look. "Admiral, now? Given your talent, I knew it was always an inevitability. Still, I had hoped you would find yourself at the head of a larger fleet than the Alliance's."

"I go where I am needed most, General."

"As a good soldier should." Oleg looked back to Jim. "I had hoped you got Mr. Findlay's message, Mr. Raynor. Cerberus needs the best, and I can think of few better. You are truly committed to retirement? Even with the galaxy on fire?"

Jim raised an eyebrow. "If you're screwing up that refugee traffic just 'cause you're here to offer me a job, General, we're gonna have more than words."

Oleg snorted. "You heard the helmsman. He did not lie. We ran afoul of a Reaper in the Traverse. I'm sorry to say we got the worst of it." Jim heard several gasps from behind him. _Yep. We're one step closer to the war already. It ain't just civilians getting savaged. Nine battlecruisers got the worst of it?_

"What happened?" asked Matt, leaning forward, his cast brushing against the edge of the desk.

"Why, I would be delighted to tell you, Admiral," replied Oleg, his voice suddenly dripping with acid sarcasm, "especially since, given the aforementioned Reaper, the ships and the men aboard these ships are both in perfect condition for a prolonged chat. Or, perhaps you might permit us to make an emergency landing outside the city, and we can continue our conversation in person?" He cleared his throat. "And … I will need that starport, I'm afraid. You'll understand when it lands."

Jim and Matt looked at each other. They glanced back at Sarah.

"He isn't lying," said Sarah. "He's on a time limit." A sharp breath came from the monitor.

"Now, is that…?" Oleg smiled, and it was not an altogether happy smile. "Ah. It's going to be quite a little reunion, isn't it? It is a delight to see you alive, Miss Kerrigan."

"Thank you." Sarah turned to Jim. "Their ships _are_ damaged. You should … I mean, my recommendation would be to let them land."

"Good enough for me," said Jim. That left Matt, the only one of them with any actual authority. Naturally, he did what they said.

"I'll get this set up, Jim," said Matt, placing his headset back atop his head. "You head on out. I'm thinking the fairgrounds for an LZ…"

"Splendid." Oleg clapped his hands together. "Miss Kerrigan, I will be delighted if you could join us. And Jim, if any of the old Raiders are still knocking around-"

"They do little else these days." Jim gave him a weary thumbs up. "I'll see if I can find Jack, too." _Assumin' she's still on the planet. She's been sayin' any day now she'll run off._

"So, she survived the UED as well?" Oleg looked pleased. "I don't suppose Xeltan and Mr. Findlay…?"

"Xeltan did," snapped Jim. _Tychus … did something stupid._ "I'll grab him, too. Come on, Sarah."

"One other thing." Jim paused as Oleg took in a deep breath. "The good doctors: Mordin Solus and Ganar Okeer. I need them. Bring whoever else you want, but I _need_ those two, understand? It's of considerable importance."

"Right," said Jim, hoping this was on the up and up. He didn't hear a squeak out of Sarah, so he guessed it was. "If they're okay with it, I'll grab 'em."

Jim left the control tower a good deal more silent than when he had entered it. The only voice he could hear was Matt's. The tube, at least, was a bit more lively.

"Battlecruisers?" asked one woman in a reflective landing jacket, incredulous. "We're landing damaged battlecruisers, now?"

"Not if we don't hustle, Maggie," replied the woman next to her, nudging her with an elbow. "C'mon. Don't need more goddamn 'cruisers crashing into Constant."

"Listen to her," said Jim as he walked by, "she's a wise woman." Somewhere close by, he knew, the remnants of Norad II still moldered and smoked. _Damn shame. She was a good ship._

"Are you going to hear him out honestly, Jim?" asked Sarah, keeping pace with him this time.

"You can read my mind, darlin'. You tell me."

"Your head says "no," Jim, but you don't have the full picture yet." Sarah chewed her lip as they strode out on to the tarmac out side the starport. "Jim … if you do stay – would I have a place here?"

"Yeah, darlin'." Ironically, the answer came without Jim thinking about it. "I mean … we don't have any mind readers that I know of in the whole of the Alliance. And, well, if the Reapers do come here…"

"Right," said Sarah dully. "I'm useful."

"Everyone we keep here is useful in some way, Sarah." Jim found his ground car where he left it. The layer of ash and dust on the windshield was blessedly less pronounced today. _Air has to be cleaning up by now._ "You're a refugee, now. Gotta earn a keep." He opened the passenger door for her and spread an open hand before it. Sarah stepped inside without much enthusiasm.

Driving with the new foot felt like trying to operate the pedals with a pool cue tied to his leg instead of an actual foot. _Still, leastways it ain't as embarassin' as trying to ride a vulture with it._

The car ride went in silence, not helped by the still eerily empty streets of Constant. _Two invasions, and the city don't look better for it._ Some buildings still smoldered. Some lay in ruins, toppled by an errant tank shell or far too much gauss rifle fire. A few, and this was what always sent a chill down Jim's spine, were completely untouched, standing pristine in a neighborhood of scorched earth. _Never understood how that happened._

Most people who "lived" in the city now actually lived in prefabs outside its boundaries, as the city was barely suitable for habitation. Buck, sensing an opportunity, had claimed the closest tavern as his temporary home.

"And that's why we're stoppin' here, darlin'," said Jim, giving her a meaningful look as they pulled up in front of the wooden sign, swinging on a rusty chain, that said _Joeyray's Bar._

"Joeyray's still alive?" asked Sarah, looking impressed.

"I'm plum convinced the man _can't_ die," said Jim, stepping out of the car and bringing his shoulder backs with a click. A tired looking dog lifted its head from the dusty porch and glanced at him. Then it put its head back down. _Hell. Feels like old Mar Sara out here, sometimes. Good deal greener, though._

The door was open, as expected. Amidst the numerous bar stools, a handful of sleeping bags were inexpertly rolled up in a corner littered with empty packets of snacks. Buck looked up from his pool cue from where he was standing, crouched over the table.

"Well, hey Jim! And who's this fine – oh, shit." Buck hastily stood up and removed his cap, placing it against his chest. "Hi, Miss Kerrigan. Thought you were Miranda. Or someone. I dunno."

"Hey Buck," said Sarah through gritted teeth. Buck became even paler, while Jim felt the heat creep up his neck.

"All kinds comin' to Mar Sara as refugees, Buck," said Jim, hoping that was a good enough explanation. "Includin' Cerberus. They want some of the old Raiders to meet up with them for a chat. Think you can rouse Jenny, Trome, and Swann to meet us at the fairgrounds?"

"Sure as I can make this pocket, Jim!" said Buck shrilly, crouching over the pool table. The pool ball jerked forward clumsily, knocked against the orange ball Buck was aiming at, sending it spinning well away from any pocket while the eight ball fell neatly into the corner. Buck stared in muted horror at the pool table.

"Well, I'll try harder, with Jenny and the others."

"Right," said Jim, turning away. "Fairgrounds, Buck. We should see some battlecruisers overhead shortly."

The drive to the alien refugee camp went in a decidedly frostier fashion than the rest of the journey.

"So. Miranda." Sarah looked at Jim, her expression calculating. "I only met her briefly. Old Family, right?"

"Yeah." Jim's fingers rapped against the steering wheel. He swore he felt his metal leg throb, somehow. "Old man Lawson was a right bastard, though. They don't share much in common. She's seen her fair share of hardship."

"Oh, I'm sure." Sarah didn't sound cold. Just distant. "Nova was Old Family too, you know."

"Really?" _Well, Miranda and Nova certainly shared a certain … self-assurance. And coldness, when need be._

"You have the longest way to fall, when you're at the top. Arcturus showed the Old Families that." Sarah sighed. "And then he fell, himself. One of the most powerful men alive, toppled for his crimes."

 _A son cryin' out for his daddy. Mengsk fell in the dust while the Earthers cheered me on … that was supposed to be a happy day._

"Felt bad about that. Not that it happened, just how." Jim's hands tightened on the wheel. "Miranda said if I felt bad, shoulda stepped aside and let her pull the trigger." _How long of a line was stretching behind me? How many ghosts?_ Jim shook his head. "Lot of people hated him. Killin' a few billion will do that."

"Killing just one will do that," said Sarah, bitterly. She looked up to Jim, full of pain. "You know. If it's done the wrong way."

"Yeah," said Jim softly. "I know."

The alien refugee camp possessed impressive fortifications for a temporary holding area. _For good reason._ The bulk of the inhabitants were not the freshly-arrived batarians, bound for the fields of Eden Prime, but rather those that fled Tuchanka. Behind the double-reinforced bunkers, gun barrels poking out from all sides, were medical facilities crewed by the best Eden Prime could still offer … and the two alien doctors, each inscrutable in their own way.

An asari security guard manned the booth. She took one look at the two of them only to do a double take. Jim rolled his eyes and then rolled down the window.

"Yeah, I can see a got a ghost next to me, Melira!" said Jim as the asari began babbling about security precautions. "Melira, she's a goddamn Council Spectre – yeah, I heard about the poor turian, it was an accident. Melira … Melira, just open the goddamn gate, I got Cerberus waitin' on me."

With much muttering and casting of venomous looks, the asari raised the heavy steel gate. A smell of sanitization greeted them. Gaunt salarians, turians, and batarians watched their car roll in, some of them calling out when they heard who it was. A few vorcha even poked their heads up from out of the soil.

"Gavorn!" Jim called out as he emerged from the vehicle. The turian, broad-shouldered and strong-looking, even given the circumstances, emerged from the crowd. "I need the doctors. Everything okay here?"

"No new deaths," replied Gavorn, mandibles twitching with a smile. "It seems the worst is over, Mr. Raynor. Once again, on behalf of the all the people here, I thank you for your refuge. The doctors are in the science facility." The turian pointed to the globed building. Jim nodded.

"Glad to hear it, man. If there's anything else you need, just let me know while I'm here."

Sarah kept pace with Jim again, her nose wrinkled even given the lack of smell. Jim was about to say something, only to see her eyes watering.

"Oh my God," said Sarah, sounding nauseated. A hand crept to her stomach. "I can feel it … what they went through. How can … how can anyone survive that?"

"Ask 'em. Any of 'em would be happy to tell you just how people survive it." Jim breathed in through his nose. "Or don't." _Funny. Sun is shinin', wind ain't blowin', and I still feel cold all of a sudden._

"The Directorate … I had no idea." Sarah looked up at the skies, as if searching for something. "The Koprulu Sector … what have they done to it? Do you know? Have you been?"

"Not since the initial occupation," said Jim, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. _Tychus said something about churches being used as dumpin' grounds for bodies. …what the hell did I turn a blind eye to?_

A secretary pointed them to an elevator once they told them who they were looking for. The building felt remarkably empty – few enough scientists in the ITSA, most research was done by Umojans. No one stopped them during their ascent on the elevator. Sarah spent most of the ride periodically wiping her eyes.

"Why?" she asked under her breath. Jim had no answer. The doors slid open.

They made an odd pair, the alien doctors. Ganar Okeer stood larger than any krogan Jim had yet to meet, his lab coat looking comically overstretched on his frame. Yet when he glanced up at Jim, he got the same feeling from when the protoss would look at him; like something unfathomably intelligent were peering at him from a microscope. Mordin Solus, on the other hand, looked right at home in his own white lab uniform, and the impression Jim got from his demeanor was one of rabid curiosity.

"Raynor! And … Kerrigan. Unexpected." Mordin looked up from his own microscope before hurrying over. "Timing impeccable. Discussing next move with Okeer. Concurred should stay together. May be close to breakthrough on UED nanites."

"Close may be overstating it, doctor." Ganar moved with the speed and surety of a glacier, and Jim had to take a step back as the krogan made his way over to them. "I had only part of the puzzle on Tuchanka. Assuming Wrex has not executed the lot of them, I would need the rest of the science team, your protégé especially, to validate some of my hypotheses. To act without them would be reckless."

"You still want to cure the krogan?" asked Sarah, wiping her eyes again. "After seeing _that?_ "

"Telepath. Experiencing the camp?" Mordin breathed in. "Wish could understand your experience. Krogan already cured. Would prefer to render safe, remove exploitation that killed Urdnot Grunt and several others."

"Whatever my problems with my people, they do not deserve extinction." Ganar leered at Sarah, who did not back down. "To cure the krogan is an admirable objective, even if the methods the UED are used were barbaric. On a more pragmatic level, I would hate to see all of that suffering lead to nothing but another false cure."

"Yes, yes, must still exercise caution." Mordin gave a wave of his hand. "Must get back to Tuchanka. Finish what was started. Purge remaining UED presence, save science team. Curious as to current status of UED occupants. Hard to imagine Wrex letting them live, in light of surrender."

"Right," said Jim, trying to cut through the salarian's thoughts. "Well, I think there's someone here to discuss all that … stuff, with you guys. General Petrovsky, Cerberus. He'll be touching down in the fairgrounds."

"Oh, Cerberus." Ganar chuckled. "Such joy. I was so very entertained by my imprisonment in the Norad II. I look forward to expressing my entertainment to this general."

"That was Raiders, Doctor," said Jim sharply. "My call. Not Cerberus's."

"Cerberus," breathed Mordin, looking excited. "Only limited contact. Understood Raiders contracted by group, not official part. Sometimes on par with STG, most times not. Curious as to current allegiance. Worked for Confederacy, betrayed Confederacy. Worked for Sons of Korhal, betrayed Sons of Korhal. Worked for Combine, Combine dissolved. Worked for UED-"

"Yeah, we get it," said Jim. "I don't know what their angle is, neither. I think they're friendly, though. At the least, they ain't helpin' Reapers. Said they got shot up by one."

"Hmm. Must remember to take notes." Mordin motioned to Okeer. "Come, Doctor. Expertise needed elsewhere. Blood samples will keep."

Okeer grunted but did not object. Jim nevertheless felt the urge to leave the two of them where they were.

"Always liked Mordin," said Jim as they left. "Patched me up after Thessia and the Collector base. Felt safer in his hands than most doctor's." Jim glanced at his leg. "Shame he weren't in no shape to get this thing fitted on. Swear it doesn't feel right…"

"If the people down below knew what he was working on, they'd hang him, hero or no," said Sarah bluntly. Jim stopped in place and turned to her. "Krogan let that happen, Jim. Maybe some of them didn't have a choice, but they were complicit."

"You gonna start tallyin' up grievances, darlin'?"

"I don't know. I don't know where to stand on this." Sarah's hands clenched. "But what happened was wrong."

The elevator ride back down was just as quiet as the one up. The aliens watched them approach the ground car with smiles, some of them waving. To Jim's surprise, a vorcha actually hunched his way over to the car, head bowed.

"Bright lady," he said to Sarah, not looking up. "Can remember Overmind's thoughts about bright lady. Would have made fine queen."

"Excuse me?" Sarah gaped at the vorcha, who smiled, his teeth glinting in the bright sun.

"Bright like star. Like Queen of Ruins. Can feel her, can't you? Unchained at long last. Soon, must leave Eden Prime for final pilgrimage. For War in Heaven." Behind the vorcha, others of his kind murmured in agreement. "Can no longer change bright lady. Still, must pay respects."

"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Sarah. Jim realized with a lurch that the question meant she could not read the vorcha's mind.

"Overmind missed you on Tarsonis. But found another." The vorcha bowed deeply. "Just know we will meet on the battlefield, bright lady, our true queen at our backs. So says Grazok the Brutal, from his throne on Heshtok. Soon the throne will go empty." With that, the vorcha returned to his fellows.

"Zerg," said Sarah, watching them leave. "I'm not sure how much vorcha is left in them. But I can say for sure that there's a whole lot of zerg."

"Queen of Ruins," said Jim, scratching his chin. "Well. Ain't that a catchy name. Ring a bell?"

"I'm guessing it's that asari. The one the Umojans claimed to have killed. The one that almost killed Nova." Sarah kept watching the vorcha, who began to spread out, some of them digging into the loose soil and vanishing. "God, Jim … I remember the zerg nipping at my heels in Tarsonis. Is that what was waiting for me? What that asari became?"

"Best not to think about it."

Having said that, Jim had no doubt that was what Sarah was thinking about for the remainder of the ride. Jim didn't really know what to say; he ended up welcoming the sudden hellish roar as the first battlecruiser soared overhead, belching smoke.

"Cerberus ain't in the best of shape," remarked Jim, as the second flew by, also spewing a copious amount of inky smoke. "Nothing a few SCVs can't fix." _Please, God, don't let any of them crash into the city._

"Who are we picking up now?" asked Sarah in a monotone. Jim glanced over at her. Her head rested in her hand, and she was looking out the window, not really paying attention. _Bright lady. Overmind. That damn brain wanted her?_

"Jack, if we can find her." Jim drummed his fingers on the wheel. "Powerful telekinetic. Don't believe you ever properly met. Can't read minds for some reason. Some Kel-Morian Combine fuckery."

"They always did lag on the psi-ops front." Sarah did not sound interested. "Any idea where she'd be."

"Same place she always says she won't be," said Jim, feeling his insides go a little hollow.

In the center of Constant, there was a small square patch of earth. Before the UED had come, it used to be buried beneath the concrete same as everything else, but the battle tore away the technology to reveal the nature beneath. On that spot they had found fourteen shell casings, a charred piece of the Norad II that must have been flung some distance, and the broken body of Tychus Findlay.

It seemed like a good place to bury him. Seemed like the earth itself had opened to make way for his rest.

Each day Jack would visit the spot and stew sometimes in silence, and sometimes in barely constrained rage. And then, every day, she would let Jim know that this was the last time she would visit, and she would leave Eden Prime tomorrow. This included yesterday.

They found her sitting atop the golden head of Arcturus Mengsk she had set before the simple headstone, staring with bloodshot eyes at the small grave.

 **Tychus Findlay**

 **2464-2507**

 **Lived as a criminal, did not die as one**

 **Hell … this was too early**

"Hey, Jack." Jack did not look up as Jim approached. _Hell. I can take a moment._ He looked at the headstone and closed his eyes. _You said you always knew you'd die doing something stupid. Man, there was nothing stupid about what you did. Wish I could have charged right along with you._ Jim felt his false leg twinge with phantom pain. His teeth gritted, but not from any physical pain. _Lost a lot of buddies. Wish I could say it didn't get easier. But it does. God help me, I feel a little less pain each time._

"Who was he?" Jim turned to answer, but Sarah wasn't asking him. She crouched next to Jack, who still paid them no mind.

"A stupid fucker who died," spat Jack. "Same as all the others. A criminal. Worthless. Weak. If he was strong or smart he would have lived."

"Right." Sarah nodded. "And those were his redeeming qualities?"

"Redeeming…?" Jack stared at Sarah, and Jim felt the sudden urge to step back. "He wouldn't have known redeeming qualities if they shoved a stimpack up his ass. Every decision he made in his life was the wrong one, except befriending that moron over there who busted his ass out of prison." Jack's fingers twitched. Pebbles on the ground twitched and danced over the dust.

"So why are you sitting here?"

Jack snarled and stared at the headstone as if wishing it to burst into flames. Another battlecruiser roared overhead, this one mercifully free of smoke. Jim didn't even watch it go. He didn't dare take his eyes off Jack.

"I'm here because where else would I be?" Jack asked, fists balling. "Everything's shit. You, me, the galaxy, but especially him." Jack's voice broke at the last part. "He … suited me. I mean, I thought he did. I thought he didn't give a fuck. Then he goes and kills himself for no reason."

Sarah nodded but didn't say anything. For a long time, the only thing Jim could hear was birdsong. Then another battlecruiser burst through the clouds and reminded him what he came here for.

"Jack," said Jim, "Cerberus is here. They're recruitin' people for the fight. If you, uh, if you do want to leave and get into this…"

"Fuck that." Jack's voice was as flat as the headstone. "Sure as fuck not gonna stick around here, but I don't want shit to do with Cerberus. Go tell that Magistrate fuckboy of yours that he can cram his Phantom Initiative up his-"

"I got it, thanks." Jim looked at Sarah and jerked his head.

"It wasn't your fault," said Sarah, rising. Jack tensed up … and then something went out of her, and her head went to her hands. Her body convulsed as she sucked in a deep breath. If Jim hadn't seen the girl fold a siege tank in half with her mind, he might have felt bad enough to stay and try to help.

"Don't know how you knew what to say," began Jim as they went back to the car, but Sarah only shook her head.

"I didn't. I just told what I wished I could tell myself about…" Sarah shut her eyes for a moment, and then shook her head. "It … it was just a lucky guess."

"You must be the luckiest woman alive, then," said Jim as he started up the car. He couldn't fathom why, but he suddenly felt a very intense urge to drink.

The fairgrounds had not seen much use since their inception. Being built just two months before the first of two serious invasions had that effect. Jim had missed the first and only actual fair of Constant and felt somewhat fortunate for that fact. It would be eerie, to stand among the deserted buildings and remember when they were decked with red and gold. To him, the place always looked empty.

They weren't empty anymore. SCVs rolled back and forth between the parked battlecruisers, a few of them already chewing away at the hulls of the ones with the worst damage. Personnel of all stripes marched from the loading ramps and staggered into the dust with a haunted look in their eyes, almost disbelieving at the greenness of their surroundings.

A small circle of them gathered around a familiar tall figure. Trome read aloud from a small and leatherbound black book, the words rhythmic and comforting. _Seen that book a lot lately._ Trome had carried it into the alien refugee camp. The turians in particular really seemed to appreciate it.

Jenny, Swann, and Buck watched the proceedings from outside the circle. The doctors stood a little further out, conversing amongst themselves. Jim approached the steadily gathering crowd, feeling his real leg grow heavier and heavier. _Long day. Weird day._

"…with the predictability and power of the tides, the slow but inexorable rotation of planets, the tilting of the galaxy, so too do our lives follow patterns both predetermined and chosen by our own accord…"

"Hey, cowboy." Swann gave Jim a genuine and toothy grin before doing a double take. "Whoa! Miss Kerrigan! Buck said you were here, but uh, still somehow wasn't expectin' ya. Whoa, don't think I've ever seen you in civvies."

"Hey, Rory."

"Hey, Sarah." Jenny spat a wad of tobacco on the ground before stepping towards the smaller woman. To the surprise of practically everyone present, she reached out and drew the ghost into a bone cracking hug. "Knew you were too much of a bad bitch to die. You ready to kick some ass?"

Sarah brushed herself off as Jenny drew back, some color returning to her face.

"Yeah," she said, nodding, slowly at first, then with more energy. "You know what, I think I am."

"…and yea, they did grow plentiful crops as their understanding of the seasons grew, and yea, they did predict the ebb of the storms and quakes, and yea, they did grow strong from their hardships…"

Another tall figure stepped from the crowd towards Jim. He cast one incredulous look at the figure of Trome, who had put away his book and shut his eyes, but droned on regardless.

"Cyclism," said General Oleg incredulously, his white uniform looking far less immaculate in person. He extended a hand to Jim, who shook it with only a little enthusiasm. "I had forgotten you had that old Alpha Squadron preacher with you. I will give him this, he can draw a crowd when he needs to."

"…and remember that, in all things, there is a pattern, and that there is nothing that should not be, for one day it must." Trome opened his eyes and furrowed his brow at the crowd gathered before him. _Huh. Guess he didn't think he'd get that many._ "Hrm. I hope this was helpful. In times of need, I find these words comforting." He looked over to Jim, who motioned him over.

"I must thank you, Mr. Raynor, as well as your admiral, for this succor." Oleg pressed his palms together and inclined his head.

"Uh, he ain't my admiral, and I don't know what succor means but never say it again," said Jim. Jenny guffawed while Oleg frowned, but he smiled pretty soon after.

"And I see the doctors are here. Good." Mordin and Ganar Okeer stared blankly at the general. "Very well. Mr. Raynor, if you would kindly follow me into CSV Undertaker, we might discuss this away from…" Oleg paused, "…well, to be blunt, rather large crowd of servicemen, most of whom, I must note, have better things to do?" The general gave a rather pointed look to the closest NCO, a grizzled master sergeant who jumped at his words.

"We ain't got time for this god botherer, people! Fourth level repairs, on the double! And see if we can't get some more of these damn Alliance SCVs for CSV Cleopatra, her starboard engine's about to fall off!"

"God botherer," muttered Trome. "Where, exactly, in those passages did I mention God?"

"You _implied_ him, Dan," said Buck, eyebrows wriggling. "They knows when they're being preached to about shit."

"It's possible to have faith without relying on some omnipotent but consistently inactive deity!" snapped Trome. "God botherer … do you know what I did to Alpha Squadron cadets who called me that?"

"Carefully explain the differences in secular and nonsecular Cyclism?"

"I-" Trome paused. Buck grinned at him toothily. "Yes, actually. Exactly that. They never called me God botherer after that, I assure you." He leaned over to Jim. "I suspect I have told this story before."

CSV Undertaker did not look any larger than the other battlecruisers, but Jim recognized the extra plating when he saw it. Compared to the dull gray steel of the other Cerberus ships, Undertaker stood out with its jet black finish and sleeker profile. _Never seen it in action. But I can imagine it._ The UED might have taken pride in its Normandy's stealth capabilities, but in some respects the Confederacy was still way ahead of them. Of course, the 'cruiser could not manage a full spectrum cloak like the frigate could, but still.

The interior of the ship matched the sinister exterior. Compared to the gaudy likes of Norad II and Hyperion, this Confederate vessel featured little décor. The walls did not record the lengthy accomplishments or notable prior servicemen of the vessel, but instead only offered directions. Jim could only wonder what the actual recreational facilities of the vessel looked like.

"It takes a certain kind of individual to join Cerberus," said Oleg, as if reading their minds, "and it takes a _very_ certain kind of individual to serve in this ship. An excess of clutter disrupts the cloak. We did not choose to cultivate this…" he waved his hand, searching for the word. "…grimness."

"Knowledge of terran psychology suggests majority of species would go insane living on vessel within only single week," remarked Mordin, head jerking back and forth to take everything in. "Best fix … recruit individuals already insane?"

"Yes, precisely," retorted Oleg. Jim wasn't sure if Mordin caught the sarcasm.

The bridge met Jim's expectations. It was brightly lit and yet somehow gloomy, featured a single adornment on the wall (closer inspection revealed it to be several old Confederate medals awarded to both Oleg and Harper), and the command chair from which Oleg and the helmsman had conversed with Jim and Matt earlier.

"This seems an appropriate place to hold our discussion." Oleg sat at the Captain's chair. "Please, sit wherever you like."

"Your seats are too small," rumbled Okeer, making Oleg start.

"My apologies, Doctor, I was not thinking." Oleg looked around, came up with nothing, and lifted his hands. "Please do not be offended if I suggest the floor…"

"Terrans." Okeer remained standing. "Get on with it."

"I understand the admiral is directing space traffic, so I trust you will bring him my message, Mr. Raynor." Jim shrugged. Oleg narrowed his eyes. "Yes, well. As promised, I will explain my presence here."

"We left Omega having failed repeatedly to convince Elias Kelham to return to Morian space. Even with the UED out, he seemed convinced someone, probably Zaeed if I had to guess, would kill him if he went home. Having secured Aria's place and made sure the UED's manipulations fell flat, we returned home."

"No sooner have we arrived in the rimward part of the Traverse, we catch wind of a strange ship signature. Now, we all received that Godawful transmission from Duran, so we were aware the Reapers were here, but we thought we were well clear of the invasion areas. At any rate, we prepped Yamatos."

"It was at this point we learned, to our mounting consternation, that the Reaper's weapons outranged our Yamatos by about, oh, fifty percent. It proceeded to slice CSV Avalanche in half with some spine-mounted giga cannon, almost did the same to CSV Jockulhaup and Monsoon, and then turned around and began climbing out of our range again faster than we could close the distance." Oleg wiped his nose, as if suddenly self-conscious.

"I wasn't about to chase something both faster and with better reach than us, so we made for the relay. Before we left, the Reaper sent us a short transmission. As I recall, it was a rather nihilistic message about the futility of our existence or some such, something better suited for a stroppy fourteen-year-old rather than a sentient starship out for our blood. I almost didn't take it seriously, until I saw a chunk of CSV Monsoon drifting by the viewport. I was glad to get through that relay."

"See any more of 'em on the way here?" asked Jim.

"Oh, plenty," replied Oleg, and Jim felt a chill down his spine. "Most of them were clustered around inhabited batarian worlds and didn't bother us as we made our jumps. Given their level of firepower, I was hoping they would be few in number, but there we have it. And from what I hear, more are arriving in the galaxy by the day."

"Protoss will handle it," said Buck confidently. "They said the Overmind couldn't be killed, but then they sure as hell killed It!"

"Reapers older than Overmind," said Mordin, looking thoughtful. "Reapers older than protoss. Reapers older than protheans as well. Must cobble together alliance of the young races. Protoss included."

"That is why I am here, gentlemen." Oleg smiled, and this time it didn't make Jim feel vaguely uneasy. "Humanity is in no condition to call the shots for all races, especially given our precarious position … but the protoss have asked us to assemble both our species and others, and we are here to deliver."

"The ITSA have the only terran outposts outside the Koprulu Sector," began Oleg. "Striking through Relay 119 is exceedingly costly, even with the existing bases on Chau Sara. We need the Alliance's cooperation to begin mounting rescue efforts and counterattacks from their planets. The uh, relative neutrality of the nation means we can station forces from all other terran nations here without a great degree of political fallout."

"You know the UED just attacked here, yeah?" asked Jim.

"We wouldn't station UED forces on Eden Prime, Jim. Think Terra Nova, or Horizon."

"We still ain't the people to ask about that," said Jim, shifting uncomfortably. "That would be Matt, or whoever the planetary governor is now, given that we lost the last two to surprise invasions."

"And I will ask the admiral about that, in time. What I am here to ask you, all of you, is whether you are willing to work for us."

"Called it!" hooted Buck. "I knew Cerberus would come back to pick us up, just like they always do!"

"Yeah, Buck," said Jenny, rolling her eyes. "You can sure as shit call it."

"What's the pitch, General?" asked Trome. "Tychus did not move us, although I suppose the situation did not involve a pan-galactic invasion at the time."

Oleg's eyebrows met at the bridge of his nose. Jim folded his arms and watched the man deliberate. _Make it good, man. We'll fight on our home territory, sure, but we've all seen too much blood on alien shores already._

"Cerberus is humanity," began Oleg, running a hand through his hair before smiling up at Trome. "We did not intend for it come to this. We have worked for the Confederates, Umojans, even the UED … and now we finally stand separate from all of them. The protoss hold us in the palm of their hand while the Reapers encroach on our borders and Duran demands our compliance. The shattered remnants of the Dominion, Combine, and Directorate all rage at one another over recent slights … leaving us to do what we have always done. But for whom?"

"Jack once told me that a soldier without a nation is a pitiable thing, but I think such a soldier could stand for something greater. Freed from the folly of failing flags, he or she could draw purpose from higher ideals. And what higher ideal is there than service to one's species as a whole?"

"You sound like the UED," said Okeer. "I've seen enough of this "human supremacy" to last me another lifetime." He shifted his bulk, and Jim swore he heard the metal floor creak. "If you're trying to bring back them back…"

"The UED had quite a few qualifications for what it meant to be human." Oleg licked his lips, but did not stir from his seat as he examined the krogan. "Cerberus has none. We are also not serving humanity to the exclusion of all other species. Harper wanted us dissolved once the UED were through, but humanity itself is threatened."

"We intend for Eden Prime to be the birthplace of our proposed All Flags Navy," said Oleg, bringing up an overlay of the galaxy. "It is close to Relay 118, it is one of the few planets that can service human ships, and there is a great deal of undeveloped land. It can also access turian, salarian, and asari space through the relay network in a matter of hours." As he spoke, red lines spread from Eden Prime's star, linking Palaven, Illium, and Sur'kesh. "We cannot rely on the protoss for all our logistics. This is a logical position to resist the Reapers from this side of the galaxy."

"And what about Duran?" asked Sarah, her eyes glimmering in the light of the galaxy's model.

"We will not tolerate the extermination of the protoss," said Oleg, fingers steepled, his face framed in shadow before the light of the galaxy. "His goals align with ours, but his methods do not. Perhaps the situation will develop in such a way that we might become allies … but Harper wants his head."

"Good."

"We need you all to head a crusade," continued Oleg, standing from his chair. "A crusade for the continuation of independent sapient life. Obviously you cannot give us permission just yet to use Eden Prime as a base of operations – that responsibility lies with the planetary governor and Admiral Horner – but there are few people as decorated as the veterans on this planet. And I need your doctors." He swept a hand before Mordin and Okeer.

"Purpose?" Mordin cocked his head.

"Curing the Genophage. Properly, without caveats. The krogan will not be sitting the war out this time."

"Now you sound exactly like the UED." Okeer stepped forward, bringing his face close to Oleg's, turning his head so that one of his red eyes would meet with Oleg's. "Serve humanity. Crusade. Curing the Genophage. What makes you different?"

"The galaxy has a gun pointed to its head, Doctor." Oleg did not flinch. "Cerberus does not have the time nor inclination to screw over an already declining species. We need fighters, and we need good will. Moreover, the combat simulations were clear. Krogan infantry backed by UED medics will win almost any ground war. The protoss need troops who can stand shoulder to shoulder with them on Khar'shan."

"Hmph. Part of me says I should have brought my hammer." Okeer snorted in Oleg's face before retreating. Jim thought a bit of color returned to Oleg's face as the krogan stepped backward. "Good enough. For now."

"I trust you two are up to the challenge?" asked Oleg, glancing to Mordin. "No ethical or pragmatic objections?"

"No. Understand importance. Ethics demand completion of incomplete cure. Removal of potential human exploitation."

"That leaves the Raiders, such as they are." Oleg raised an eyebrow in Jim's direction. "I am not asking you to fight on the frontlines just yet, Mr. Raynor. We need you on Tuchanka to help talk down Urdnot Wrex. We have another asset en route there already, but we need someone to do the heavier lifting."

"ITSA don't got the ships to spare, General." Jim folded his arms. "And the Norad II's been destroyed. Even if I wanted to work with you guys, which I still ain't sure about, we don't got the means to haul ass around the galaxy anymore."

"I think you'll find that you do, Mr. Raynor." A quiet smile played at Oleg's lips. "Check the starport. She's a good ship, you know her quite well. We plucked her from Korhal following the assault, much to Stukov's frustration. We lacked the crew to fully man her, as she is a bit larger than the average battlecruiser … too large to land without the assistance of a starport." Oleg gestured to the door. "Please … go take a look and then send me your answer. In the meantime, I will get ahold of your admiral."

"I can't be bribed with ships, General," said Jim, amused. "I don't even fly the damn things, just use 'em as armed taxis."

"And there are few finer than this one. The only one that comes to mind is the DSS Aleksander." Oleg gestured again to the door. "Confer with your associates and decide if you wish to spearhead the galaxy's salvation." _You leave out just what that will cost. Can I ask the Raiders to go through all of that again?_

The others filed out to leave. Jim held back and caught Oleg's eye.

"Miranda-"

"Missing, and we have no idea what has become of her." Oleg shut his eyes for a moment and gave Jim a pained look. "Like I said: Harper wants Duran's head. Perhaps he would be merciful if he returned her to us. I'm sorry, Jim."

Mordin led them back out through the ship, claiming to have already memorized every corridor they had marched through. Jim made a mental note to keep any and all building and weapon schematics away from the man.

"Thoughts?" Jim looked back and asked the group.

"Been too long since I burned somethin', Jim," came Buck's reply. "Get me into one of them new Firebat suits and let me at the Reapers."

"We got a duty, Jim." Jenny sounded tired. "I was getting used to the soft beds and warm food, but it'll be there when we get back."

"There's a cycle to things, Jim, we know this." Trome put a hand on Jim's shoulder. "We fight, and rest, and fight again. But this will be the last time, I think. If you are ready, so am I."

"I never trusted Harper," said Sarah quietly, making everyone prick their ears. "But … this is it. It's fight or die. I know which option I like better. I don't care about the serving humanity crap, but an All Flags Navy sounds like what we need."

Jim's leg scraped against the floor. The phantom pain crept back in again. _You know what the right thing to do is, Jim. It's just gonna be hell, a hell like you ain't seen for seven years._

They took their own separate vehicles back into Constant proper. The traffic above now returned, a sign that all battlecruisers had landed. Several SCVs scooted past them on the way, bound for the most damaged of Cerberus's ships. Up high, the sky began to turn a light orange and pink, a sign that the lengthy Eden Prime day was beginning to draw to a close.

"You sure you want to dive into the heart of this, darlin'?" asked Jim as the starport came into view. Sarah gave him a somewhat scathing look.

"I'm still a Spectre, Jim. I won't huff Terrazine if they ask me to, but I have a job to do. Attaching to Cerberus makes sense. And … I have a few things to make up for. We don't all have a clean conscience like you."

"My conscience ain't clean, darlin'." Jim looked up at the looming battlecruiser perched atop the landing pad. _Jesus, that's a monster._ "I just don't want it gettin' any muddier." _Crusade. Might have chosen a better word._

The battlecruiser had gathered a small crowd just outside the starport entrance, some of whom were taking pictures with their omnitools. Matt waited at the head of several Cerberus technicians, all of whom were thrusting specs into his hands.

"I'm familiar with the ship's schematics, thank you," he said curtly to one particularly pushy Cerberus engineer. "I just need to know all modifications made since 2500. I don't recognize the reactor make. Just who did Mengsk contract for that job?"

"Hey, Admiral!" Matt practically spun around as Jim called out. He adjusted his askew cap and coughed politely.

"Excuse me a minute. That would be her prospective owner. Jim!"

"That's one of the biggest capital ships I've ever seen outside the turians and protoss," said Jim, looking up appreciatively at the vessel. "Looks like, what? Over two hundred laser batteries? Wish we had that on our side when the Directorate attacked."

"You don't recognize it?" asked Matt. He turned to Sarah, who actually nodded, smiling. "Sarah does. Although, I suppose you spent more time on it, didn't you, ma'am?"

"Yep. I thought that was a ship you wouldn't forget, though." Sarah pointed to the starboard side of the vessel. "Recognize the lettering?"

"Not at this distance." Jim looked around. A pair of binoculars dangled from one asari's neck. "Hey, can I borrow that a minute, ma'am?"

Jim brought the lenses to his eyes and zoomed in. For a moment, the letters remained fuzzy as his eyes refocused. He read an H. It didn't take him long to fill in the rest.

"Downed during the battle of Korhal, but not too badly damaged," said Matt, and his enthusiasm was becoming infectious. "You remember her, don't you, Jim? Think she's had a few body lifts since she took you off Mar Sara, but she's meaner than ever."

Trome whistled. "Well, as far as bribes go … I can't even think of a comparison. There would be a certain justice, I think, saving lives in such a vessel. Repurposing it for his greatest enemy."

Arcturus Mengsk's flagship, Hyperion, shone in the dying Eden Prime sun. Jim lowered the binoculars and made a decision.

On balance, it wasn't so hard. The galaxy needed a marshal.

* * *

 **Next Chapter: Amelia**

 **A/N: We're all done with new PoVs. There will be one-offs, but these are the faces we'll be sticking with.**


	8. Second Wind

**Amelia**

The room's walls felt wider day by day. Amelia still counted the steps as she made her rounds, and the numbers were always the same, yet she felt as if they had fallen back. Let her breathe.

The visitors helped. Joker and Kaidan made for far better conversation than the Illusive Man, whose intensity felt uncomfortable to witness. Then there was Admiral Hackett, who only stepped in to take the papers from her shaking fingers; her best recording of everything that had happened from Eden Prime to Stukov's final undoing. _A record of how the world ended. At the behest of a medic and a rogue AI._

"Thank you, Shepard," Hackett had murmured, his eyes already on the front page, lingering on the bolded titles. "This will help us immensely in … rendering a verdict."

"On me?" asked Shepard, feeling a stab in her chest. Despite herself, she suddenly wished she had omitted a handful of details.

Hackett had looked up from the papers, eyebrows disappearing beneath the brim of his hat.

"No, Shepard. On all of us."

Strangely enough, that had made her feel a little better. Inside the cell, she was far away from the gunfire and the aliens. Time stood still, and the guilt bled from her hands and on to the paper. When Hackett took her account away from her, the sins went with him. Now, there was just the sounds of air conditioning and her own pulse, interspersed with the noise of exercise courtesy of a small but growing pile of equipment. No books, alas.

 _This can't last, you know._ It was hard to tell how many days it had been. At least a week, certainly. The number of meals had to have been roughly around twenty. They bled into one another, tasted mostly the same. _No gunfire. No aliens. No comrades lying dead at your feet. No planets burning._ Did that hold true throughout the galaxy? Lieutenant Vega remained tightlipped, but Hackett and Harper's words still echoed faintly through her mind. _You will be needed…_

Nevertheless, it was not up to her how long she would remain here, or what her punishment would be. For now, there was the rigor of exercise, the hum of a fan, and the occasional visitor who reassured her, at length, that none of this was her fault. It did wonders to make the pain fade. Amelia smiled to herself. _Deep inside, you are screaming._

There was one more visitor. A new one, somewhat unwelcome, but his name made her sit up from her bed when Vega read it off.

"What the hell could he want?" Amelia had asked, a weird amount of panic clawing its way up her throat. "I don't want people getting the wrong idea." _There was no evidence, it could have been any medic on Korhal that day. Damn you, Harper…_

"He wants to visit you, Shepard," replied Vega in an infuriatingly reasonable tone. "Past that, I dunno. Maybe he'll bring a checkers board?"

That sounded promising, even though Vega had made it up on the spot. Amelia saw no real reason to stop the man from seeing her, although it made the bile rise in her throat. She had enough people accusing her – with a substantial amount of evidence to boot – of being a traitor. _Him_ showing up to have a friendly chat … well. _At least it was approved by the Admiral._ She suspected the two of them were working together now, which made her giggle a little. _At last, humanity is truly uniting, colonials and earthers both._

Amelia wished she knew how long it would be. Part of her almost wished she had access to a computer, partly to link her back to the world, and partly to get a glimpse of what people thought of her. _People across the galaxy raising a glass to my name. That can't be true, can it?_ She didn't deserve it. Maybe she didn't deserve the hate, either, but she certainly shouldn't be toasted.

Someone knocked at the door sharply, three times. Amelia sat up from her bed and stared at the white door. She opened her mouth, but only a muffled squeak came out. She coughed and tried again.

"Come in."

The door opened, and a tall man with gold hair, some of it streaked white, stepped in, the strap of a heavy-looking bag in his hands. He bore an outfit of mixed blue and gold, his shoulders marked by impressive pauldrons while a handful of medals dotted his chest. He smiled nervously at Amelia as he crossed the threshold, his pale face reddening a little as she stared at him. Lieutenant Vega loomed in the background, his arms folded across his broad chest, his face cast in shadow by the light.

"Commander Shepard. You know who I am and I do believe we have met, but…" The man fumbled for words. He looked to his side for a moment and then puffed out a short breath. "Well, I am Valerian Mengsk, son of Arcturus. It is an absolute honor to meet you." He stepped forward and extended a hand. Amelia, unsure of herself, pushed herself from the bed and grasped his hand, making sure her grip was firm. To her surprise, Valerian held her hand tightly as well, although he, too, rose his eyebrows in mild astonishment at her grip.

"To what do I owe this honor?" _Honor._ Perhaps not the best word. Amelia didn't know the political situation and, to be blunt, she didn't know who this "Valerian" was at the end of the day, either. _He's at least not here to take vengeance._

"Honor," chuckled Valerian, looking to the side again for a moment. He released his grip and let his free hand fall away to his side. "The heroine of the galaxy asks a humble citizen what "honor" she owes him to visit. At ease, Commander. Know that I speak for most of the galaxy when I say I have much to thank you for."

"I don't see it that way." Amelia did not mean for it to come out so blunt. Valerian sighed.

"No, and I understand why. Well, at the very least, put any thought from your mind that I came here for vengeance." Valerian licked his lips. For a moment, his eyes slid away from Amelia's. "I … loved my father. I did, and I th – I know he loved me as well. As a son. I can never thank you and yours for killing him. But we have bigger concerns. And you … saved me."

"I don't recall doing that," replied Amelia, turning her voice steely. Valerian turned over his shoulder and glanced at the Lieutenant, who sighed.

"Commander, Valerian has already testified before the surviving Directors. If you think the people pissed at you for what you did with EDI can hate you any more already, well, I don't think they can. You saved him, he appreciates it, me and Hackett don't care. All right?"

Amelia looked Valerian dead in the eye. His cheeks did not look as full as they did on Korhal, and he had accumulated a few new wrinkles under the eyes. Nevertheless, the small smile he offered was a far cry from the desperate terror she remembered that day the Dominion died.

"Thank you, Commander." He proffered the bag, which swung loosely in his gloved grip. "I was told you had request books. No one had any insight on to what kind, so I went through my digital library and found physical copies of things I thought you might like." Amelia took the strap gingerly, and hoisted it up. Inside, several hard cover books glistened in the light.

"I have only read a bit of Earth literature, mostly during my stay on Umoja when the Directorate began its full cultural assault of the Sector," continued Valerian as Amelia pulled the first book out, a historical account of the supercarrier, _Reagan_ , and the initial establishment of the Protectorate. "So, most of what I have is limited to the Sector. I included some more, ah, pop-culture examples of our writings. Forgive my taste in fiction." Amelia pulled out another book. The cover featured widow mines cornering a cowering terran in overalls. The book felt reassuringly heavy. _Good few hours in this one._

"Consider this my personal thank you for what you did in Korhal. In time, I hope to offer fuller thanks, on the part of the Dominion." Valerian inclined his head, but even half-bent over he still towered over Amelia.

"You're welcome. And … thank you for the gift." Amelia slid the books back inside and hoisted the bag on to her bed. Valerian lifted his own head and pursed his lips. _Something else?_

"There was one other thing. I wanted to ask you it in private." He jerked his head back toward the door. Lieutenant Vega snorted.

"You trust this guy, Commander? I can give you five minutes."

Amelia stared up at this would-be emperor. He offered her another small smile. _Damn. He looks nervous. Could it be…?_ She wasn't in the mood for games. Nor was she in any shape for them. Still, he'd brought her a means to alleviate the tedium. _I can give him five minutes._

Amelia looked around Valerian's side. "Five minutes."

Vega flashed a thumbs up and the door slid shut again. Valerian breathed out slowly.

"For the record, I have informed Hackett of this, as well as what I intended to do about it." _Well, we're off to a weird start._ "It _is_ a matter of humanity's security, and it does need to be addressed. I felt it should be you who addressed it." _Okay…_

"I was held captive by the zerg for a time," continued Valerian, beginning to pace, eyes darting around the room to the jump rope, to the kettlebells, to the foam roller. "During that time, I was … implanted with a parasite, one that would allow the Queen of Ruins to hear and see what I hear and saw. For all I know, she is listening right now." _Oh. Awkward._

Amelia sat down on the bed, crossing her legs. She watched this parasite-infested, would-be emperor continue to pace.

"Previously, removing these parasites was considered impossible using terran medical science. They are implanted on the nerves, and their removal is invariably lethal. However, once the UED began setting up their free medical clinics in the Dominion, I was told that one of their services involved removal of these parasites for veterans of the Great War. Apparently, your lasers are far more attenuated than ours."

Valerian looked up to Amelia, the small smile growing even more nervous. "If there is one UED medic I would trust to remove this parasite, it would be the one who spared me when she had no reason to. I would not and will not go under anyone else's knife. I was hoping you would perform the procedure."

"Grasers," corrected Amelia. She returned Valerian's smile. "I was never taught that procedure, I'm afraid. They wanted to keep me on active duty, not in the clinics, and the risk of that kind of infestation was deemed extremely low."

"Even after the attack on Korhal?" Valerian sighed, dragging a gloved hand across his sweat-ridden head. "I understand. Still, would it be possible for you to learn it? If I asked Hackett he could bring some video walkthroughs…?"

 _This has gone in an unexpected direction._ Amelia stared up incredulously at Valerian. He held up his hands in supplication.

"Please. I understand the strangeness of the request. Just bear in mind that, after yourself, I am perhaps one of the most hated people in the galaxy. If you needed life-saving surgery, would you trust anybody right now?"

"No." Amelia's heart beat slowly in her chest. "No, I would not."

"This is hardly life-saving, but I would prefer to live my life parasite-free, especially given who is listening in." Valerian nodded, as if to himself. "Yes. Yes, I would prefer that. So, if you are willing to help, I can send the word to Hackett. If not … well, I'm sure an Umojan will master the technique sooner or later. Trouble is, "sooner" is becoming increasingly pressing. Have you heard what is going on out there?"

"No," replied Amelia, ears pricking. "Is it bad?"

Valerian paused, as if considering. He nodded once, slowly, glancing back at the shut door.

"Commander, it's the fucking apocalypse." _Didn't think he would be one to swear._ "Earth is safe, and the Sector is well out of the fire for the moment, but that will change. They're going to send you back into the field. Soon."

Amelia's heart chilled. The internal screaming grew a little louder.

"I'm in no state to help anyone, Mr. Mengsk," said Amelia, voice shaking a little, but Valerian waved it off.

"Please, just "Valerian" is fine. I hold no titles for the moment. I said as much to Hackett, and he replied that pretty much the entire Armada is a Section-8 right now, but we'd, and I quote, "Need some craziness to survive what we're up against." He has something particular in mind for you. And he said you wanted to save lives."

"I do," said Amelia before she could stop herself. _Well, it's true. It's what I as trained for. Born for._ "I do."

Valerian glanced back to the door one last time.

"How does Tuchanka sound to you?" Amelia's heart beat a little faster. "There are UED personnel on the planet that need rescuing, not to mention the krogan people as a whole. We need someone there that Urdnot Wrex trusts after…" Valerian bit his lip. He looked away. "Damn it … even after knowing what my father did, I couldn't believe what I heard from that planet."

"Neither could I." _Grunt … how could they?_ "I had a good reason for what I did." _I should have followed Kaidan's example and refused to fight._

The door opened again behind them. Lieutenant Vega cleared his throat.

"That's all the time we have, I think. Just think it over, would you?" Valerian extended his hand again, and Amelia shook it. This time, neither of them grimaced at the other's strength.

"I look forward to working with you, Commander Shepard," said Valerian, stiffening and offering an almost-correct UED salute. "We will be in touch, as will a certain benefactor of ours."

"Yeah," said Vega, checking his omnitool on his wrist as Valerian strode out. "He's, uh, he's actually next on the list. Says it doesn't matter if you approve him this time, he's coming in."

"Charming." Amelia sat on the bed, pulling the widow mine book, "FROM BELOW THEY SCUTTLE" from her bag and setting her back up against the wall. "I'll be waiting. Thanks, Valerian."

The door closed once again. Amelia read the author's foreword, and rolled her eyes despite herself. _Based on a dream he had. We're off to a good start._ Still, a fire roared inside Amelia now, and she found herself reading the same sentence over and over again. _Tuchanka. A chance to make things right. With Earth. With the krogan. With everyone._

The door opened and a familiar grey figure strode in, his gaze intense, a briefcase in his left hand. He stared down at Amelia with mild incredulity upon seeing the cover of the book she was reading as she sat it on her lap.

"This laptop will offer one Captain Patrick Harris's report on the Reaper threat as it stands in the galaxy," said Jack Harper. "It will also update you on the situation on Tuchanka, as well as the status of Earth and humanity as a whole. It also includes a lengthy report on the … on Duran." _Duran?_

"Parts of it may disturb you," continued Jack Harper, offering the briefcase with a gleam in his eye, "but it will give you what you need to prepare. Understand that you will be working for me, principally, as the UED cannot politically allow you to operate under them at present. You will be considered a rogue asset under Cerberus, but you will report to myself, Valerian, and Hackett."

"Cerberus," said Amelia dully. "Great. Is anyone else coming with?"

"Just the crew of the Normandy," said Harper, and Amelia's heart swelled. "Lieutenant Vega has also expressed interest in continuing his work as your bodyguard, if you will have him." Amelia noted the hint of distaste wrinkling the man's face as he said this.

"There's no one better," replied Amelia, smiling. "What about Joker? Kaidan?"

"Both first on the list." Amelia nodded at this. "Yes, I thought you would approve. You will have carte blanche to accomplish your mission as you see fit, as with all Cerberus operatives. You might be unused to such freedom at first, but trust me, once you are on the ground, you will appreciate it." He proffered the briefcase. "Do you accept this mission?"

Amelia stared at the briefcase. In a sense, it offered freedom. Freedom from duty to the UED, to this room, to her guilt. In another sense, it offered the confinement of what she was beginning to suspect was a burning galaxy. A horde of people that wanted to kill her. A war to redefine what wars were. _But who am I helping in here? I was born to save lives._

Amelia reached out. Jack Harper gently shoved the briefcase into her arms, sending FROM BELOW THEY SCUTTLE falling to the floor.

"You have forty-eight hours," he said abruptly. "Pack your things and read everything at least twice. I'll clear everything with Hackett. Lieutenant Vega will escort you when it is time." He paused.

"I suppose … there is the matter of the oath. This feels an especially appropriate time for it."

"Cerberus has an oath?" Amelia tilted her head, hands resting against the smooth surface of the briefcase.

"We _did_ begin life as a Confederate Spec Ops organization, Shepard," replied Harper, with a note of steel in his tone. "It is not our fault that things have become so … complicated. We revised the oath once the Confederacy fell and our priorities shifted."

Amelia lifted herself from the bed, placing the briefcase gently on the floor. She put a hand over her heart.

"If there's a part of it I don't like, I just won't say it." Amelia shrugged. "Sound good?"

Jack Harper rolled his eyes, but lifted his right hand into the air.

"I pledge to serve humanity, first and foremost, in all its shapes and forms." _Sounds familiar._ Amelia recited it back.

"I pledge to guarantee humanity's future, regardless of cost, in the face of an increasingly crowded and uncertain galaxy." Amelia followed suit. _This still sounds like something the UED would come up with._ "I pledge to hunt those who would massacre innocents in pursuit of power, as well as eradicate alien threats to our species." _Are we sure Stukov didn't write this?_

"I pledge to help maintain terran sovereignty, through acts both overt and clandestine, and resist tyrants who would compromise our freedoms."

"I pledge to serve Cerberus, the last guardian of humanity, until my strength fails me or the walls are breached. Remember Tarsonis." Amelia finished up, wondering how exactly Cerberus and the UED had come to blows.

"Bear in mind that Oleg and I wrote that after Mengsk made his power play," said Harper, wiping his brow. "There are things I would perhaps change, now. The alien threat I mentioned would be the zerg, at the time at least. Now, I suppose, there are others. Reapers for instance." His face darkened. "And others. I recommend getting the section on Duran out of the way first. I suspect you will not believe it."

Harper offered an accurate UED salute and strode out of the room, pausing only once at the door.

"Forty-eight hours. We will be in touch. Good luck, Commander."

Amelia waited for the door to shut and opened the briefcase with trembling hands. It powered on at a touch. Her fingers danced over the keyboard, searching over the familiar profanity-laden documents of Patrick Harris.

 _Javik, Samir Duran – the Hybrid threat. What the hell?_

For several hours, Amelia pored over the notes, unable to believe what she reading. All the while, in the galaxy all around, the shadows lengthened.

* * *

 **A/N: Jesus, sorry about the delay in update. I don't have any schedule for this and have just secured post-college work and have been struggling with writer's block. I'll try to keep rotating updating stories at least once a week. I started this chapter months ago ... Next chapter will be longer and have action. Promise.**

 **Oh yeah, and expect a Patrick Harris update to the UED Analysis as he comes to grip with the Reapers. Hint: he thinks they're bullshit.**

 **Next Chapter: Tarquin**


	9. Spirit and Shade

**Blackwatch Special Forces**

 **Callsign: Nomad One-One**

 **Location: Space Station** _ **Steel Heart**_

 **Assignment: Explosive Ordinance Disposal**

 **Tarquin**

Tarquin sat quietly at the back of the chamber, letting his comrades with something to prove make the noise. In truth, something inside him did simmer with something close to anger – but it felt closer to disappointment. _Shouldn't this be Blackwatch's hour?_ But that thought was selfish, so he kept his arms folded and his mouth shut. Vice, however, had not gotten the memo.

"General, with all due respect-"

"No good has ever come with a sentence that starts "with all due respect," snapped General Desolas, not even turning to look at the sergeant as he spoke. His eyes remained fixed on Captain Regis, who stood in protest alongside about a dozen others, Vice included. "Enough." Vice's mandibles shifted in silent protest, but he mercifully obeyed the general. Desolas inclined his head towards the captain.

"Speak."

"General, Palaven is burning," said Regis, in a tone whose neutrality was betrayed by a faint trembling. "This is the hour in which we are needed most. We should be looking inwards and forwards, not to other species and ancient slights."

"Noted. Sit down." The captain did not sit. The general took on a new stillness that made Tarquin look away for a moment. _Wonderful._ "That was an order, Captain. And it applies to the rest of you."

"Sir, I would appreciate the rationale behind this mission," said Regis, making Tarquin wince. _We do not question orders._ Tarquin understood the captain's sentiment – the world seemed to be ending after all – but to see a superior act in a way so … unturian … made something prickle in Tarquin's chest. _It's not the captain's failing, It's the situation. Some people have a great deal to lose, after all._

Not him, though. Tarquin had only the one thing left, and it didn't truly interest him that much these days.

"If you treat this situation as if it is out of control and the rules no longer applied, Captain, it will swiftly develop as such." General Desolas's tone reminded Tarquin of the first heavy step of his father coming up the stairs after he had broken something or hit someone. It gave him that same inward _thud._ "Sit. You will be given the information you need, and sent where it will do Palaven the most good. I should not have to tell you this."

Captain Regis sat, and the motion rippled outward – slower than the general probably would have liked. For a moment, Desolas's gaze met Tarquin's. It might have been his imagination, but he swore Desolas's expression softened for a moment.

"You will be deployed via stealth frigate to the Kelphic Valley." Desolas turned around to the previously forgotten holographic display, zooming in on the orange sphere representing Tuchanka with a swift gesture. "En route, you will consult the older manuals on the appropriate disposal of explosive ordinance; while the basic principles behind our atomics have remained the same, some of the structural facets of our bombs have changed as the years have rolled by."

"Shouldn't this be handled by a dedicated EOD team then, sir?" asked Priestess. Like Tarquin, she had not stood when the others voiced their protests. Desolas accepted her question with something close to relief.

"Consider the environment. I will list the present hazards." Desolas placed his palms upward and moved the display eastward. "To the east, a vast array of krogan, presently infuriated by the UED, and with a long history against our people." He scrolled north. "To the north, thresher maws; to the west, zerg; and to the south, krogan zerg, who also ride thresher maws."

"We're gonna end up in the south," whispered Vice loudly. "I just know how this goes. I know how this _always_ goes."

"To be blunt, I need experts who can also get in quietly and handle a wide variety of threats." Desolas took a moment to glare at his audience, lingering on Regis. "Blackwatch is the best, or so I am told. You do not improvise. So I am eager to see how you have planned for such an operation."

"Pop and drop with a stealth frigate," said Regis, to a chorus of assents. "Drop some digging equipment as well. Dig it up, disarm it, get the hell back to the real fight. Rules of engagement, sir?"

"Local forces include krogan, terran, and protoss," replied the general, coughing a little after the last one. "The protoss … will not interfere. They are, to be blunt, aware of what we are doing and would prefer we got it over with." _Reading between the lines, I think they might be the reason we're doing this. Did the Primarch get a phone call asking to the effect of, "Why is there a nuke hiding under one of our beneficiaries' population centers?"_

"The terrans and krogan are not to be contacted or engaged. They are presently sorting out their difficulties with one another that do not involve us, and hopefully never will."

"Faster we do this, the faster we get to Palaven," said the captain abruptly, casting a sweeping glance around him. Others gave him nods. Tarquin, too, when it was his turn. _No need to make enemies here._ "General, any further details?"

"One of our heavy cruisers will wait at system's edge to pick you all up once this is done." Desolas's mandibles twitched. "As you have … intuited … there will be a great deal more for you all to do once this mission is over. Board at 17:00 hours. Dismissed."

The teams dispersed immediately, most of them bound for the same exit – the same queue. _Loved ones waiting for them._ Most of the calls to Palaven and her colonies were being answered, just slowly. It would take more than a day of partial Reaper occupation to bring communications down.

Vice and Tarquin, however, made for a different exit. Well, Tarquin did. Vice just saw where Tarquin was headed and jogged after him, slowing down when Tarquin turned around and tried to make himself look less desperate.

"Can you believe this shit?" asked Vice as soon at they left the briefing chamber, well out of earshot of the already irritated general. "It's the biggest conflict in history, and they're sending us to make nice with the krogan. Why? They don't fucking matter."

"We have our orders," replied Tarquin bluntly. Vice cocked his head at this.

"Right. It's just input and output with you; I forget sometimes." Tarquin did not have anything to say to this. It helped that he knew the sergeant well enough that being met with silence only frustrated him and made him talk more. "Well, where are you headed?" he asked after a few moments of no reaction. Tarquin almost smiled to himself.

"The garden," replied Tarquin. "Nobody to call, and nobody calling me. And my stuff is squared away, just to have to haul it aboard when the time comes. What about you? Anybody you're worried about?"

"All I have left is dad, and he can call _me_ if he wants to talk." Vice bristled momentarily, lost in some old slight. "Eh. Last I checked he was in Illium anyway, I think. Probably fine. Unfortunately. So, I guess I'll take a look at those damn manuals, because the captain will probably read them wrong and kill us all."

"You could come to the garden too, you know?" Tarquin wasn't sure why he said this. He instantly regretted it. But Vice only laughed.

"If the Spirits want anything to do with me after all I've pulled, they're fools. Plus, I'm sure you value your quiet time." Vice patted Tarquin on the shoulder. "See you downrange, Lieutenant."

Tarquin nodded back at the sergeant and then continued down the station's corridors, winding his way to the center. The people who passed him moved at a hurried pace, many of them speaking into omnitools or furiously swiping at it, checking news feeds. _There will be time enough for that._ Tarquin still had to see what everyone was going on about with that Duran character. All that mattered was what came next. _That, and seeing that the dead are honored._

The thick bulkhead opened into the steel gray of the arboretum. The lighting here remained as artificial as everywhere else, but shone with a greater intensity, as befitting a simulation of Palaven's own sun.

The spikey foliage rose well past Tarquin's head and created a complete, if shallow canopy. He could hear water running nearby – always a welcome sound – and a spicy aroma wafted through the leaves. Tarquin followed a paved footpath dusted with fallen yellowed leaves, his boots scraping against them as he trod. He breathed in heavily, and then headed left into a small clearing. A circle of candles, some lit, stood at his feet.

Tarquin knelt down and activated his omnitool. With a click, it spat out a thin, furtive flame about half an inch and held it. He pressed it against a thick red candle, the waxed wick catching immediately. The smell of spice grew a little stronger. Tarquin shut his eyes.

 _What do you imagine the spirit of your family looks like?_ His father had asked him that once, just after his mother had died. Tarquin had not known at the time, but hoped that it smelled like mom. His dad, General Adrien Victus, famed even back then, had been quiet a very long time when Tarquin said that. Then he admitted, very softly, that he loved that idea.

 _And if you asked me that now?_ Now Tarquin envisioned a steel titan bearing his father's face, stern and looking down on him. The last Victus standing. A foundation of greatness. _What will come of you, Tarquin? You look to us for guidance when it should spring forth from you._

Plenty of his comrades had, over the years, uttered in hushed tones how lucky Tarquin had been to come from such a line of heroes – especially Adrien Victus, whose ship had slain the Zerg Overmind. But all Tarquin felt was a weight, a crushing weight. _He killed a god and saved the galaxy. I arrest volus and … carry their children on my shoulders._

Grief shot through him, sudden and unwelcome. _Spend too much time in the company of the dead._ Everyone else waited for their turn with their loved ones. All Tarquin could see were the faces of his parents, and he all he could hear were the voices of those he could not save.

 _We were equipped for counterterrorism, not rescue. What defense do you have against a psi storm? The fight goes on in the rest of Irune…_

Tarquin lit another candle, for Irune must have a spirit; bloviating and conflict-averse, yes, but strong in its own way. Nature had made the volus soft, and they had done plenty to compensate. _Give me guidance. How can I best save your people?_

Soft footsteps sounded behind Tarquin. He stiffened, hoping he would be granted privacy. Instead, someone knelt beside him and lit a candle of their own, the orange of the omnitool flashing behind Tarquin's eyelids. Tarquin sharply inhaled and opened his eyes, ready to move elsewhere if need be – only to almost fall over when he saw General Desolas kneeling next to him, eyes shut.

"Sir-"

"A moment." Desolas raised a finger and kept his eyes squeezed tight. When he opened them, it was slowly, as if with great exhaustion. He looked at Tarquin. "Forgive me, Lieutenant. I know you prefer to be alone when off-duty."

"Sir?" Tarquin wasn't sure what to say – wasn't sure what was appropriate. The Blackwatch did not improvise, true, but he was not presently on duty. He had no parameters for a general deigning to speak to him. Doubtless the man had his own smaller garden where he could practice if he wanted.

Desolas paused, thinking. "It's … not a matter of favoritism, Lieutenant. It's a matter of responsibility. I was your father's commanding officer at Thessia, and I put him in harm's way. He performed magnificently, as I had hoped, but he was still my responsibility. With his passing, that makes you my responsibility."

"Oh." Tarquin did not know what to say to that. Should he be … flattered? Grateful? This was the first time he had seen the general in person since his father's funeral.

"Again, not a matter of favoritism. But you are here, and I wanted to make sure you are … well." Desolas shifted on his knees, as if uncomfortable. "You did not give me grief at the briefing. I should not have to thank my soldiers for doing their duty … but I am still grateful for that, at the least."

"I know better than to argue, sir." _And if I speculate, I keep it to myself._ "We will not fail you down there."

Desolas looked as if he desperately wanted to say something, his mandibles lowering twice as he almost opened his mouth. But in the end, he just nodded to himself.

"Good. Good. I … would like to speak to you again, once you get back. Blackwatch has already sustained casualties, and we have several teams in need of a leader-"

"I do not feel ready for that, sir," replied Tarquin abruptly, his heart suddenly pounding. _They will see the name Victus, and they will expect greatness in our darkest hour. Do you feel ready, Tarquin? Do you?_ His family's spirit glowered at him with his father's face.

"You do not, perhaps, but it is up to your superiors to decide," said Desolas, some familiar steel sinking into his tone. "Perhaps you are dwelling on your father's accomplishments and how in the Spirits you could live up to them?" Tarquin did not bother to reply, only let out a sigh.

"Of course. Well, if it is of any assistance, Tarquin, I go to bed every night wondering the same damn thing."

Tarquin's head shot up at that, staring at the general in a new light. General Desolas did not smile, but something twinkled in his eyes.

"We are all standing on a foundation of greatness, Lieutenant, and turians years from now will measure themselves to the likes of us and wonder how they could match our strength at this dark hour, I assure you."

"Thank you, General."

"You are welcome." The general stood, inhaling the scent of the candles once more upon standing. "Sadly, this is all the time I have allotted for the Spirits. Palaven also demands my attention." He nodded once to Tarquin. "Good day, Lieutenant."

It became difficult for Tarquin to focus on prayer after that. He left shortly after the General did, returning to his temporary quarters in the upper reaches of _Steel Heart_ , along with the rest of the wayward Blackwatch. In the bunk next to this, Vice furiously packed everything into a neat little duffle, sighed irritably, and then emptied everything again. _He's even worse with his weapons._ Tarquin could sense another argument with the captain looming in the future.

For himself, he took the time to get out his sketchbook and a piece of charcoal. He let his fingers skate across the surface of the paper, feeling relief in the solidity of the utensil against the page – something neither his father nor his squadmates had ever understood. Tarquin shut his eyes and let his mind produce the images it may. When he opened his eyes, though, all he could see were burnt bodies on burnt streets. He put the charcoal away.

"I'm gonna go get my gear squared away." Vice only grunted, staring venomously at a small collection of serrated knives lying in a heap.

Time did not pass quickly for Tarquin. His suit had been freshly repaired, his weapons reissued (with a duly stern warning not to lose them again, lest he dishonor the spirit of his unit and so forth,) and the frigate stocked with enough MREs to feed three platoons for a month. _Hurry up and wait. A common military phenomenon._ The charcoal and notebook came out again, and Tarquin did his best to draw cheerful things: flowers, sunshine, and antimateriel rifles. He took occasional breaks to try out the latter at the range, imagining that they were mini-Reapers and the like, rather than the vague silhouettes of krogan (which the rangemaster naturally vigorously denied.)

As he came out of his second trip to the range, someone stopped him. Priestess, sitting cross-legged atop a crate of MREs, eyeing him quizzically.

"Hey, Lieutenant."

"Hey, Specialist." Tarquin inclined his head. "How's Quercus? Get ahold of him?" _Alive?_

Priestess gave him a tired smile. _Ah, good._ "Says he's stuck on Taetrus with a bunch of protoss that turn invisible and carry scythes into combat. He was trying to play it down, but I think he was actually excited to work with them."

"He does have that axe collection," said Tarquin, remembering the sole time he had met the man. "He's probably happy that _someone_ still believes in melee combat."

"And you don't have…?" asked Priestess, using more tact than Tarquin might have expected. He shook his head. "Right, I would have met her. Or him. Any family? They okay?"

"It's just me, and the people standing next to me." Tarquin returned Priestess's smile, suddenly tired. "I'll leave the extranet lines for those who need them. Only thing I need to worry about is the Hierarchy."

"You can worry about yourself, too, Tarquin." Priestess gestured to the stack of crates next to her. Tarquin shrugged and jumped atop them. The two sat in the firing range quietly for a moment, hearing the dull thuds of gunfire from inside the soundproofed rooms beyond them. "Nervous about Tuchanka?"

"Nah. Hear it's lovely this time of year." Tarquin sighed. "I'm more worried about what comes after. Never thought I'd see the day when contact with infested krogan didn't feel like a big deal." He gave Priestess a sharp look. "You think we should be on Palaven?"

"My heart says yes. My head says that we are spec ops, not line infantry, and that the krogan alone have basic foot soldiers that can stand shoulder to shoulder with the protoss and not shame themselves." Priestess chuckle as Tarquin cocked his head. "I know, I know, the Blackwatch is legend; we could do so much more and so on. But think past that, Tarquin. In a straight gunfight, especially against the Reapers, how much better are we going to perform than a standard infantry squad?"

"You have biotics," replied Tarquin, a little more accusatorily than he intended. Priestess just chuckled.

"Yes, I suppose. But I can't topple Reapers with them – the ships I mean. This is the Fleet's war, really. And aside from my biotics, what do we have that line infantry do not?"

"Experience and expertise. Survival skills in hostile environments. Medical skills. Bomb disposal skills. The ability to rapidly deploy and adapt to changing battlefield conditions." Tarquin paused. "…all of which would serve us well in Tuchanka, I suppose." He shrugged. "But I don't need convincing. The captain does."

"The captain will come around once we set down, I am sure of it. Tuchanka does a good job shaking people up, I hear." Priestess slipped from the crate and extended a hand. Tarquin took it and slid off the boxes. "Come on. Eat with me, and the others. We could use your company. And you, theirs."

With Priestess's help, the time sped up nicely, to the point Tarquin almost felt sad when he boarded the stealth frigate, _Shade,_ alongside the twenty-three other Blackwatch operatives. He sighed as the airlock cycled and he strode through the door. Captain Regis waved him over from the helmsman's chair, his eyes blazing with intensity.

"I imagine you are as eager to get this mission over and done with as I am, Lieutenant," said Regis, not waiting for a response. "Good, good. Intel suggests that our flight path is strewn with anti-air turrets on the planet's surface."

"Our heat-emission system should nullify any krogan targeting protocols," said the helmsman, a slim turian woman with blue Palaven markings across her cheeks. "Short of the UED or protoss, this is the most advanced known stealth system in the galaxy."

"This path will take us over krogan zerg country," continued Regis, pointing to the glowing red layout before the helmsman. "Any krogan that sees us will, to be blunt, unlikely to pass that knowledge on to the clans proper. Regardless, we are to eliminate any witnesses we come across." Regis gritted his teeth. "Unless they are protoss. I hope that goes without saying."

"You might have to remind Vice," replied Tarquin, only half-joking. Regis shut his eyes and shook his head.

"Yes, quite. Well, Tarquin? You are my second; I would have your opinion."

Tarquin glanced again at the screen. _Keeping away from population centers seems like a good idea. And no one fucks with zerg; it's unlikely we'll be seen._

"We are positive the krogan won't be able to detect us?" asked Tarquin.

The captain glanced to the helmsman, who nodded in the affirmative.

"Are the infested krogan growing any spore colonies?" asked Tarquin, trying his best to think of everything.

"Protoss have been burning all surface hive clusters from orbit," said Regis, but still looked impressed at Tarquin's foresight. "Good suggestion, though. We will rescan at the planet's surface to make sure nothing has cropped up since the last report. It's unclear how many of the protoss's garrison is still planetside." Regis grunted, and when he next spoke, it was with obvious venom. "Almost like they might have more pressing matters to contend with."

"I'm sure they don't like having a nuke under their feet," said Tarquin, not sure how else to keep neutral. Regis gave a little laugh and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Few do. Well, Lieutenant, let's do our families proud and make this quick. Palaven needs us. Helmsman?"

The helmsman nodded. "Buckle up – gotta go through the pre-flight check up." _Hurry up and wait._ Regis took a seat to the side of the helmsman while Tarquin retreated further down the bridge and strapped himself in between Vice and Priestess, who both gave him a grin as he sat down.

"You ever get your knives the way you wanted them?"

"Fuck off, Victus."

The frigate lifted off minutes later, to the combined relief of all present. Resentment simmered in the air, and it was hardly limited to the spec ops boys and girls. The flight chief and navigator argued animatedly before the galaxy map, the chief's finger continually stabbing at Palaven's system.

"…where we _should_ be going!" But Tarquin caught little else.

"Attention crew and passengers," said Regis, his voice echoing over the intercom, "ETA to mass relay is twenty minutes, and approximately one hour until drop. If you're heavy infantry, head down to the armory ASAP and get strapped in."

"Lucky you," said Priestess, clapping Tarquin on the shoulder. Tarquin rose from his seat and proceeded to the elevator alongside a dozen other weary turians. Regis jogged in last, standing next to Tarquin and giving him a quick nod.

"I want suits on in five," said Regis to the assembled troops. "Guns loaded and checked by ten, and all lights green before we hit the relay. Understood?"

A chorus of "yes sirs" and "aye ayes" echoed through the elevator.

"Good. We'll be dropping before the cabals and the DMs. If there are hostiles at the LZ … well, there won't be when the second half of our platoon makes their drop. Understood?"

Another affirmative chorus. When the doors opened, the turians proceeded in what other species would have recognized as an orderly fashion. _But I can see the urgency in how quickly we move, how terse we are when speaking. How many of them could not reach their friends and family? How many suspect or know the worst has come to pass?_

It was not his place to ask. They might have been lumped together for this operation, and they might all be brothers and sisters beneath the 'Watch, but until they were blooded together, only Priestess, Vice, and the Captain were truly sib. _And this is hardly the time anyway._

Tarquin had heard that the Dominion's marines could don their power armor in about a minute, assuming they were well-practiced. He had also heard that the Dominion's power armor needed to be literally climbed inside or built around the soldier in question, neither of which struck him as terribly efficient. For the turians and their hardened mobile exosuits, it was as simple a matter of turning around and stepping backwards into the waiting suit, which then closed around you, like a mother taking a child into her arms. _Huh. I made myself sad._

Of course, from what he was also given to understand, the basic terran CMC suit was a mass-produced piece of crap that could not even repel basic gauss rounds designed for brainwashed former criminals to die in, while his HME was a glorious murder machine designed to excel in all conceivable combat scenarios while being piloted by the Hierarchy's finest, so perhaps he was being unfair to the terrans. _It's not like I've ever met a terran anyway._ He would have to ask one, if he ever got the chance.

The main time waster in getting the HME ready was checking all systems. The eezo core needed to be stable, and power systems needed to be evenly split between thrusters, barriers, and built-in weapons systems. The suit needed to be comfortable. And, most critically, the pilot's bowels needed to be completely empty before entering the suit. No exceptions!

 _Are the terran CMCs different in that regard? Hmm. Another question for the terrans._ _One unlikely to be answered._

Tarquin gave a grunt of satisfaction in seeing all systems green. He then stepped forward to the weapon racks with a heavy tread, feeling comfortable for the first time aboard _Shade._ After plucking his heavy three-barreled rifle from the waiting rack, he upgraded that comfortability to genuine contentment. _Ah. I am ready._

Other suits strode about the armory in similar states of readiness, their vocoded voices emerging from their suits at a low register. The resentment turned to anticipation. _The anticipation would soon turn to eagerness._ And how could one not feel eager, with this much power at their fingertips? Sometimes Tarquin felt Vice was missing out. Not Priestess, though. She already had biotics to play with.

"Victus, with me," barked Regis, inclining a single armored finger towards Tarquin. "The rest of you, by the ramp in the hangar."

"Sir?" asked Tarquin. Regis pointed to the elevator.

"Helmsman is going to take us in. I want your help assessing the LZ before we drop." Regis paused. "I also thought you might appreciate the view as we go in."

"Yes, sir." _Aww._ Truthfully, it did excite Tarquin a little. He had never seen Tuchanka before, and might never again. And plenty of marines, bereft of aught else to do, would fight for a viewport whenever something interesting was coming into view. He had never quite managed to disown that impulse.

The elevator ascended. When it reached the bridge, two eight-foot-tall heavily-armored badasses strode out of it, drawing stares and eye rolls from the flight crews. _Eh, they're just jealous_. _Besides, between sailors certified to fly a stealth frigate and a glorified infantryman, I think we all know who is really more valuable here.._

But Tarquin would keep that to himself. He followed his captain to the bridge, trying to remind himself that he did not need to duck. _Ceiling does look close, though._ He made it to the helmsman without disgracing himself, however, and stood tall and proud next to his captain.

"Lieutenant, status report."

"Relay is clear of hostiles, sir. Straight shot to Tuchanka." The helmsman scrolled through the haptic display, images flying by with every deft swipe. "There was an automated warning that you missed: Reaper forces are hitting the Zerg Exclusion Zone and all other known zerg inhabited regions. We were advised to steer clear of infested areas."

"Which we are heading right into." Tarquin could not see Captain Regis's expression beneath his helmet, but he could just imagine him gritting his teeth. "We will have to make this quick. Intel reported no zerg presence on Tuchanka as of two hours ago and we have no reason to doubt them – damn things are pretty hard to miss. Might just have to bump up our timetable."

"And if there are Reapers, sir?" asked Tarquin, knowing the question had to be asked.

"Then we will just have to chance flying over krogan space, Lieutenant." The Captain sighed. "In that scenario, I would just hope that all sides involved would ignore the little turian ship flying around, and let us conduct our affairs in peace. How does that sound?"

"Like a plan, Captain." _At least he put thought into it. We do not improvise after all._

"Coming up on the relay." The helmsman helpfully shoved away the brightest of the haptic menus so that the two of them could see out the viewport. What caught Tarquin's eye was not the relay itself, but rather the fleet surrounding it, all guns trained on the relay. _Twelfth fleet. Ready to give the first Reaper that comes through a warm welcome and a cold burial._

Tarquin had no idea whether the forces present would realistically make a dent on the monsters he saw back on Irune – he was not privy to that combat data – but he could not imagine even the Zerg Swarm having a fun time of it coming through that relay. Five dreadnoughts waited with their broadsides at the ready from five different angles. Dozens of heavy cruisers bristled with cannons, while the space around them swarmed with fighters.

 _It's not enough,_ whispered something deep inside, something cold and heavy and sad. _All gone soon. It's not enough._

"Approaching relay," said the helmsman, reaching for the intercom. "Crew, brace for jump. Thirty seconds."

Regis rested one hand on Tarquin's shoulder. The three fingers tightened around the shoulder. _He's nervous._ Had to be an unpleasant sensation. Not only was he stuck with a mission he did not want to be on, he was not confident about carrying it out. _Well on the upside, he should be one cheerful bastard once we get back to Palaven, no matter how much we get thrown at us._

The ship shuddered as the mass relay enveloped it in its bubble. The world turned blue and twisted in short order, and Tarquin could not help but marvel at the light show. He could not recall ever witnessing it firsthand like this. The helmsman was plainly inoculated against the glory of such a beautiful display of azure, given she was more interested in her instruments, but for Tarquin … well, it reminded him of his first shuttle ride off-planet with his father. He had lifted his arms and hooted as his stomach flopped and the g's pushed him against the back of his seat ... but dad had just looked at him and said, "This will get old to you too, one day."

Tarquin half-expected the helmsman to say the same damn thing. Instead, she just gave them both the all-clear sign without even looking at them.

"Drift just under 2k, about as smooth as you can get without being a machine." The helmsman nodded to herself. "How long do you think this will take?"

"Drop off should only take under an hour, once you drop the digging equipment." Regis released his grip from Tarquin's shoulder and resumed holding the barrel of his Imperator rifle. "You're to run dark until we are done. Pick up should also take under an hour. But as for how long you will be in the Aralakh system?" Regis shrugged. "Depends how deep our ancestors felt like planting that bomb." The Captain gave a dark little chuckle. "If I were to hazard a guess, based on how angry they were at the time, they didn't dig it that deep."

"But that was centuries ago, sir," said Tarquin, making Regis turn on him. "Odds are, more has covered it since then. And besides, our ancestors never wanted the device found."

"I was making a joke, Lieutenant," replied the captain, coolly. "In truth, I suspect this will take about two days. Hopefully, the worst we will run into are wild varren or klixen, assuming the viscerators didn't eat them all."

"Coming out of the bubble, now." The Helmsman glanced up at Regis. "Final call rests with you, sir, but I am told that Reaper AA defenses are formidable. I would not count on this ship surviving entering anywhere within fifty miles of those things once we are in atmo, stealth system engaged or no. Be advised."

"I am advised," muttered Regis. The blue of the mass relay began to shrink and fade. "Let's see what we're up against."

The world snapped back into shape, revealing the vast array of stars the galaxy had to offer once more. At the center of their vision, and comparatively far less beautiful, blasted and gray Tuchanka lurked in the corner of the solar system like some wounded animal. No fires presently licked its surface, although that might have been because the krogan had left the Reapers with nothing to burn.

Something pinged once on the helmsman's screen. She swept it aside in irritation.

"Protoss observer," she said by way of explanation. "Just letting us know that, yes, there are protoss in the system and yes, they know we are here."

"When going through relays, how often do you get pinged by protoss?" asked Tarquin, actually leaning in a little out of sheer curiosity.

"Since last year, maybe one in three relays," replied the helmsman, making the captain and Tarquin exchange glances. "Since this war started? Every single one."

"If we are unwelcome here, I'm sure they'll let us know," muttered Regis, now sounding noticeably nervous. He extended a finger to the planet in the viewport. "There are ships in orbit."

"Terran battlecruisers," said the helmsman, bringing the terran vessels' readout to the forefront. "Directorate ships. Running a looping message."

"Play it."

"Attention all approaching vessels! This is Praetor Taldarin of the High Templar. These ships have been claimed on behalf of the Daelaam Protectorate!" boomed a deep and echoing voice. "Their crews are being held by Clan Urdnot pending release at Urdnot Wrex's word! Grave crimes have been committed by humanity here. Negotiations are ongoing. Regardless, their crews remain under the protection of the protoss. Anyone who opens fire on them will experience the wrath of the Firstborn!"

"The protoss are needlessly verbose," complained Regis, motioning for the helmsman to shut the message off, which she did. "If that were a terran speaking, they would have said something to the effect of, "Open fire on these ships and we will fucking kill you." And of course, we would have been just as succinct but nowhere near as crude."

"Truly," replied Tarquin, "the protoss will never reach our level of greatness by carrying on the way they do."

"I would expect that shit from Vice, Lieutenant. I thought sarcasm beneath you."

Tarquin shrugged. He hardly thought he came off as the fool in that exchange.

"Taking us down, sir." The gray ball of radioactive rubble, also known as Tuchanka, grew larger in the viewscreen. Soon, the ship descended through the upper reaches of the blue atmosphere, the curvature of the planet disappearing as they approached the dust-choked cloud layer.

"Estimated five minutes until drop," said the helmsman into the intercom. She glanced up at the two of them.

"We'll be going in the second round," said Regis, prompting a nod from the helmsman. He glanced at one of the haptic screens, and Tarquin followed suit. "Coming up on those turrets now. Is the stealth system active?"

"Active since we hit the system, sir."

"Good." Regis stopped looking at the haptic screen. Tarquin, however, looked at them a little longer.

"Design looks familiar," he said, trying to place it. Racks of missiles loaded on top of a rotating platform, with a thick square base. _Pretty sure I've seen that in one of my manuals._ Trouble was, Tarquin was also pretty sure it had not been under the entry for krogan. "Sir? We certain those are krogan missile turrets?"

Regis sniffed and checked the monitor again. Tarquin heard his breath catch.

"Protoss, maybe?" he said, uncertain. "No, they have photon cannons, I am being foolish. Helmsman?"

"Scans are not matching with known designs, sir."

"But I swear I've seen this one!" exclaimed Tarquin. He looked at Regis. "Sir?"

Regis ground his teeth. "Continue forward. The stealth system should carry us through, even if this is a more modern turret of some kind."

"Approaching drop zone. Two minutes." The helmsman removed most of the haptic screens, concentrating on her task. "Whatever they are, we're coming over them now."

Tarquin held his breath. A second passed. Two seconds. He and Regis stared at each other. After a few more lengthy seconds, Tarquin let out a sharp breath.

"I suppose-"

All of the alarms in the world blared at once. Crewmen shouted in alarm as their screens went red, and the helmsman frantically drew up the layout of the SAM sites.

"What? The systems are engaged, we shouldn't-"

"UED!" shouted Tarquin, suddenly realizing. "Earth missile turrets, they wouldn't be on record yet! And their stealth systems are … well…"

Regis took one look at the monitor, showing dozens of incoming, then back at the bridge filled with crewmembers who were certainly not expecting to land on Tuchanka today. Regis gave one hard nod, more to himself than anyone else, his entire armored head inclining forward.

"Fuck. I suppose the krogan co-opted them." He nodded again, this time to the helmsman. "Inform the crew to brace for impact. Try to land in non-infested krogan territory. Good luck, I hope we both survive the landing."

"Attention crew," said the helmsman, "we have been targeted by krogan-controlled UED missile systems. We will be making a crash landing shortly, assuming our barriers hold. Brace for impact and prepare for potential boarding action by local enemy ground forces."

Tarquin grabbed hold of a nearby rail as tightly as he dared. The crew, shouting only a few moments ago, fell dead silent. Outside, something gave a high-pitched whistle. _Here it comes…_

The ship shook only a little when the first missile vaporized on its barriers. It shook a little more at the second and third, a few seconds later. _Maybe she can survive this?_ Then came the main barrage.

A blast of superheated metal ripped through the bottom of the craft as the barriers finally gave out and the UED's guided missiles worked their way through. Regis shouted something, but Tarquin could not hear it over the chaos. His vision blurred as bits of the craft were ripped away by G-forces, even despite the helmsman's desperate efforts to decelerate and reach the ground safely. Flames licked his armored legs, but mercifully could not touch him through his barriers. _The flight crew … they are not as lucky._

The frigate shuddered violently, once, then twice. Tarquin could now look down at where most of the bridge used to be and see gray wastes of irradiated metal and dust. He looked up to see the bulk of the vessel beginning to break at its neck, the strain becoming too much. He glanced behind him. The helmsman had already been swept away like so many others, leaving only Regis. Their eyes met beneath their helmets.

"Jump for it!"

 _Boost._ Tarquin dropped from the frigate, and felt a sudden great weightlessness as he left the speeding wreck. Then he felt a great weightlessness as he plummeted to Earth, counter-thrusters desperately engaging in a fruitless battle against gravity. _Guess it's up to the legs. Let's hope we don't land on something sharp._

The ground came up hard and fast, but Tarquin did not land on something sharp. He instead landed on a hill of loose gravel, immediately sinking waist deep inside it. His counter-thrusters gave out as motion ceased, leaving him unharmed, relatively, but also stuck. Tarquin sighed and tried to wrench himself free, only to sink another half-inch, leaving his elbows scraping against the ground.

"Perfect." Tarquin was tempted to drop his weapon and try to pull himself free with his hands, but looking around, suspected that would be a bad idea. A rolling sea of noxious black carpet surrounded the base of the hill. _Creep. Vice was right. We knew he was right!_

The sound of something unearthing itself came from Tarquin's left. He desperately swiveled in place, sinking a little more as he did so, coming face to face with the yellow eyes and mandibles of a hydralisk. For a moment, it looked as surprised as he felt. Then it screamed, its form snaking further out of the hill it had buried itself inside. Tarquin gave it a taste of all three barrels, sending in spinning in a fountain of gore.

"This isn't the Great War, bastard," grunted Tarquin, watching the hydralisk's lengthy body roll down the slope and to the Creep below. "We know how you guys work." _In groups, principally._ All around him, the gravel began to hiss.

"Come on then!" shouted Tarquin, knowing his voice would not carry as far as his gunshots just did. "Come have a taste of Palaven!"

More bodies crested the stone around him. Zerglings shook off the dust and bounded towards him. Hydralisks poked their heads out, eyes centered on him. And, in the back, a krogan sporting spiked black mandibles crested through the stone like a fish from a wave, his bare feet landing surprisingly lightly against the gravel. Tarquin laughed as his barrels span up. _Time to turn them all to paste._ He activated his incendiary rounds with a flick of his eyes.

The first wave of zerglings disintegrated in a hail of eezo-infused metal. The first hydralisk to open his flaps swiftly lost them, his body pinwheeling down the hill in a spray of red. The krogan chuckled at the display and cracked his knuckles.

"Turian," he boomed in a rasping gurgle, making Tarquin pale. _They speak?_ "Will enjoy this."

The krogan charged with a war cry that echoed in both the air and Tarquin's mind. Tarquin, hydralisk spines pinging off his barriers from behind, redirected his aim at the oncoming storm, never letting go of the trigger. Crimson blood flew from the krogan's face, setting it aflame, but the beast did not slow. _Spirits, no!_ Tarquin braced his legs as best he could…

A deafening bang filled the air. The krogan's skull flow apart, and his flaming corpse fell backwards, sliding some way down the mountain. Radio chatter echoed in Tarquin's helmet.

"You stuck, Lieutenant? Hang tight – Captain's coming to get you." Vice's voice, mostly calm. Mostly. Tarquin swiveled again, just in time to catch a Zergling flying at his face. He caught it with his gun and flung it aside, just as his barriers gave out. Two hydralisks, almost within stabbing distance, closed their flaps. Tarquin levelled his gun, only for one hydralisk's skull to abruptly vacate its body. The other one, perplexed, glanced its companion's way. Tarquin squeezed the trigger and held it. The creature screamed and twisted, flailing its scythes this way and that before falling. The air temporarily fell still, except for the settling dust.

"Zerg! I swear to the Spirits, it's always the fucking zerg!" Regis barreled down the hillside, his armor already coated in dust and blood. He stood lightly atop the loose gravel and leaned down to Tarquin, one hand lowering to reach for his subordinate's gun. "Come on!"

Tarquin held on tightly to his weapon as his captain pulled it upward. Regis clapped Tarquin on the shoulder before turning back to the top of the hill.

"We gotta move! Follow the smoke trail and double time it, soldier! Vice, reposition yourself in range of the wreckage. Let's move!"

"Copy your last, boss," replied Vice, oddly snarkless. "Got more bogies coming out of the Creep, so make sure to take any shortcuts they can't. Not seeing any air bogies, so we might be okay."

"Yeah, but the rest of the team and the flight crew especially, is not!" snarled Regis. _He knows it's his fault._ Tarquin would stand up for him when the time came, but this turn of events could only be interpreted one way by high command. The two of them crested the hill of rubble to be greeted with a great plume of smoke. Deep below, weapons fire rattled through the valley, centered from the source of the smoke.

"This is Nomad One-One Actual to all Nomad units and _Shade_ flight crew," called out Regis as they began their hasty descent, "we are in zerg infestation zone, repeat, zerg infestation zone. Infested krogan are converging on _Shade's_ location. We are also in a thresher maw zone, repeat, they have access to thresher maws."

 _Vice knows. He always knows._

"We are to cut our way through the invaders and proceed four and a half clicks northeast to the bomb site," continued Regis, and Tarquin hoped this was possible. "Once we are at a safe distance, we will notify the heavy cruiser that we need digging equipment. We will complete the mission and go home. Stay sharp and stay close to the nearest heavy infantry. Over and out."

"How the fuck are we going to kill a nydus maw, sir?" asked Tarquin, hoping Regis had put thought into it.

"Hope it chokes and dies on the first sorry fucker it swallows," snapped Regis. "If you get eaten, just squeeze that trigger 'til the gun overheats."

Up close, it became terrifyingly apparent that not only were multiple figures sprinting across the ground around the crash site, the ground itself was moving. The earth churned with the beasts burrowing beneath it as well as atop it. Regis and Tarquin did not even slow. They just activated boosters and leapt, propelled by their suits, from the slope and atop the first disconnected part of the blasted hull.

"Weapons fire from the flight deck!" shouted Tarquin. "Biotics!"

Priestess and three cabals stood back to back, their arms alight with azure. A vorcha dropped from the ceiling only to get punted back out through it with a scream, while a hydralisk had its head abruptly turned around 180 degrees with a flick of the wrist from Priestess.

"Dropping in, sir!" Tarquin vaulted down from the ceiling, landing atop the body of a fallen krogan. He let rip with his gun, painting the walls red, yellow, and black. The flight deck, twisted and jumbled and coated in bodies, went still for the moment.

"Armory down below!" shouted Priestess, not stopping for anything. Tarquin loped after the cabals while Regis jumped down, only to swear and stop short as the metal peeled away beneath him. Another hydralisk forced its way through with its claws, mandibles spraying saliva everywhere. Tarquin stepped down hard with his boot. _Just another overgrown bug._

The steel corridor sloped suddenly downward into a collapsed portion of the ship. Tarquin looked down and realized, to his dismay, what he saw below was likely it for survivors. Nine heavy infantry, standing back to back, in a pit of death crawling with zerg. Six flight crew, plinking away with their sidearms and trying desperately not to get hit by any hydralisks. Three designated marksman, all too aware that this was to be a close-range affair. And then there were the cabals. _And the two of us._

"We fight our way up and out!" screamed Regis as the two of them dropped down the corridor "chute" and towards the firing line. Tarquin looked up at the skies above. _Roughly a sixty foot climb up an unstable gravel and concrete surface._ He looked down, only for the ground to begin to break beneath his feet. _Fuck!_

"Keep moving!" Tarquin fired into the ground, making it still, and then followed Regis, who began slamming the twisted wreckage out of the way with his gun, paving a rough path through the ship's remains. The remaining flight crew huddled behind the heavy infantry as they formed a circle and began fighting upwards, each step small and uncertain.

"Another krogan, coming up on the left!"

"Witch, up high! Polonium rounds!"

"Baneling swarm, coming in from the southeast!"

Banelings popped and burst in showers of emerald. Krogan screamed expletives at the turians as they tried (and failed) to get close. And the hydralisks sent shower after shower of quills at them.

One marksman caught a spine in the throat while her barriers were down. Her body went tumbling down the hill. A _Shade_ crewman shrieked as something grabbed his leg and pulled him under. Regis sent a burst of weapons fire down where he once stood, and blood bubbled out but the crewman never did. And all the while, Tarquin's barriers became more and more taxed, while his gun took longer and longer to cool down.

"Halfway!" called out Regis. "Watch your step! Keep firing!"

"It's like motherfucking Thessia!" shouted someone, and Tarquin felt a stab at that. _Is this what they went through? Did my dad watch?_ But it was a momentary stab; he had far more pressing concerns. Like the bellow of something huge in the distance. _No, they have no ultralisks. No ultralisks here. Nope._

Regis was first to make it over the lip of the crater. His hands reached down and pulled the others up and out, one by one. Tarquin brought up the front, firing at the wave of flesh still angrily bearing down on them, gun steaming from the abuse. When the last cabal was hoisted up and out of sight, he finally turned around and pulled himself out.

"Keep going!" The others had already taken off, and Tarquin was eager to pursue.

"Captain, this is Vice," said Vice, voice nibbled by static. "Got uh, got a radio transmission from a ship above. Passing it along – jacking up the volume so you can hear it over the zerg."

"Attention turian crash survivors!" came the twang of a terran voice, "this is Admiral Matt Horner of the _Hyperion_. You have been shot down by krogan local defense forces, to which we are unaffiliated. They will not fire on us, but they are jamming our comms. Send up a flare or some kind of signal so we can home in on your location, over."

"Ignore them!" bellowed Regis. "They are not to know why we are here! We _will_ finish this!"

Feet pounded against the earth as the ragged survivors struggled to outpace the death that chased behind them. For a minute or two, it seemed like they were winning, the heavy infantry carrying those who could not run anymore.

Then the ground shook. Then shook again. The world seemed to slow.

Two heavy infantry stumbled as a gaping circle became apparent beneath the ground, the dust and dirt falling inside its gaping maw. One luckless bastard fell into it, scrabbling desperately against the ground as he did. A yawning mouth gulped once and squeezed shut. Then it began to move. _Thresher maw._

Regis shouting something, but Tarquin could no hear. The maw vanished beneath the soil, but Tarquin could still hear and _feel_ the damn thing moving down there.

"Cap…in," shouted Vice, voice losing connection. "We've g….s inbound!"

No one paid him much mind. The maw gurgled beneath them, sending out a rancid odor from the shifted earth where it made its passage. Zerg hissed all about them, zerglings moving to make the surround while the slower hydralisks caught up. Tarquin became very still.

 _Ah. Here is where I die._

That made things very simple. He wondered how many zerg around him had come to the same conclusion. Tarquin held his ground and let loose, his chest plate opening to let the stored missiles fly, the rest of the mission be damned. Krogan flew backwards at the force. Zerglings and vorcha disintegrated. Hydralisks burrowed beneath the ground to avoid his ceaseless deluge. And Tarquin, Tarquin advanced, laughing, knowing the mission and by extension, himself, had failed, but also knowing this was his last chance to remove just a little more ugliness from the galaxy. He'd be damned if anything stopped him now.

The zerg line broke beneath Tarquin's advance, although he knew most of them had just shifted to the sides and rear. Nevertheless, to see them give way to him was … flattering. Exhilarating. This would be a good death.

The nydus maw broke the ground to his left, catching another fat falcon in her jaws. Tarquin lifted his gun skyward and squeezed the trigger until his gun beeped, clicked, and stopped firing. The nydus worm, infested krogan jeering from their straps atop her back, jeered at the poor turian below them. Tarquin screamed back at them, a death scream that sent chills down even his spine. The krogan bellowed something in their tongue. The thresher maw prepared to dive.

 _I'll rip you apart from the inside._ His deeds would only add to the Blackwatch's spirit. His gun cooled. Tarquin was ready.

"Re…t. …pers inb…d." Vice's voice. The last he would hear. Tarquin took a deep breath. So did the maw. Then a beam of bright sunlight pierced the clouds above, blinding Tarquin. The nydus maw paused, as if starstruck … then its head began sliding from the rest of its body. A deep horn rang through the heavens.

A great four-legged shape, a pointed body, a wave of light. Tarquin saw the Reapers arrive firsthand, their scream of bass announcing their intention to cleanse the planet of zerg, something Tarquin had to concede was a worthy goal, frankly.

"Lieutenant! Tarquin!" Regis dashed up to Tarquin, shook him. Tarquin shoved him off, still staring, the bass echoing in his mind. The nydus maw fell in half, sending up a great gush of yellowish green liquid. Another Reaper crested a cloud up high, this one closer to them. It landed atop a nearby ruined hilltop, a plate opening at its center. With a chill, Tarquin realized something.

 _It sees me._ Yet he could not move. Something ensnared him in place. Regis screamed at him to haul ass, Vice was yelling over the channel, Priestess was hollering instructions, yet Tarquin's blood pounded low and slow. Something burned inside the Reaper. Then it let loose, but Tarquin found himself flung aside.

"Victus, you damn fool," said Regis, the last thing Tarquin would ever hear him say. Tarquin fell on his back, getting a good view of Regis staring down at him, his own weapon cast aside. Then a wall of red light passed over the captain and faded. Where the turian had stood, now only embers remained. They faded quickly.

Something burst inside. The spell broke.

"Fuck fuck fuck!" screamed Vice. "Fuck – no!"

"Captain's down," reported Tarquin, his mind going cool and mechanical, a survival tactic he knew would not last. "Assuming command. Vice, send up a flare – mission's a bust."

"What?" shouted Vice, but Tarquin knew he would obey.

"All units, this is Nomad One-One actual. We are calling in the terrans for immediate evac. Vice, send up the flare."

 _This is your fault._ Tarquin knew that. Part of it was because he had to inherit the mess from the captain now. _And part of it is because you froze. Because you got a death wish and got confused when it looked like you might not get it._

But this wasn't the time. His training snapped into focus.

"Form a circle at the base of the hill, out of the Reaper's line of fire," called out Tarquin, and the others moved to obey, even as they bled from their myriad wounds, even as some wondered who the hell was calling the shots. "DMs, fire off your flares. Vice, get on our location."

"What's the ETA on those terrans?" shouted another fat falcon at Tarquin, but Tarquin had to wave them off. _We both know I have no damn idea._

They formed a circle at the base of the hill, the last stand of the Blackwatch. Zerg, either pursuing them or fleeing the Reapers, it was not clear, barreled down the gravel slope after them. Some died quickly, coming to a dusty rest at the hill's base. Others died at the end of a fist or a bayonet, having weathered the storm of bullets just long enough to meet a more personal end.

The Reapers blasted out yet more notes of more bass as the fighting continued. Occasionally, a beam would sweep over the top of the hill, making the zerg scream, but it was unclear whether the ships were even aware of the turians' continued presence. Tarquin breathed heavy and slow, trying to focus on each squeeze of the trigger, each fresh zerg that sprinted, burrowed, or jumped at him. _This is your fault. Victus._

Another blast of bass. A Reaper dropped from the skies above, this one burning directly beneath it. It landed with a thud, making the earth shudder. Then it took a step forward, towards where they were. _It sees us. I know this._

Tarquin could not help but wonder what the thing was thinking. It had come to kill zerg, but found them. What ran through its mind?

But the Reaper took only one step forward. Then it shifted upward, a light shining upon it. What sounded like twanging guitar music sounded from the heavens.

"Yamato away!"

A blast of pure orange energy struck the Reaper full force in its "face." The thing staggered backwards, smoking. The familiar hammerhead figure of a battlecruiser broke through the cloud barrier, its spotlights shifting from the Reaper, to the battlefield plateau, then finally to their firing line.

"All right boys and girls, sit tight and wait for the evac chute." The terrans spoke over loudspeaker, a crude but effective counter to krogan jamming. "We're coming over you now. Joker, make sure you keep the other two off of us."

Something ripped through the air at high speeds. Another Reaper cried out. _The terran stealth frigate._ Something in Tarquin wondered if the terrans had arrived just to upstage them at every turn.

The skies turned dark, but that was only because the _Hyperion_ now occupied the skies above them. With a _kerchunk_ Priestess vanished into the heavens with a yell of surprise. Then Vice. Then three others, all of them into the waiting terran arms above. _Okay. Think of a lie. Or some kind of excuse._ With a grunt, Tarquin shot into the air, leaving the zerg-choked lands of Tuchanka beneath him.

The chute deposited him before a waiting crowd of … not just terrans. Elcor and asari watched as he fell to his knees, coughing, retracting his helmet and trying to come to terms with still being alive. A terran, black and gray fur adorning his face, watched him with a single raised … eyebrow. Yes, Tarquin remembered his manual on terrans, now.

"Admiral, we gonna get clear of those Reapers?" asked the eyebrow-raiser.

"Retreating into orbit, Jim. Commander Shepard says the bastards are staggered and the zerg are mounting a coordinated counteroffensive, of all things. We will be the last thing on their mind in a few minutes; I can see mawsign all over."

"Ain't this a hell of a day," asked "Jim," reaching out a hand. Tarquin stared at it incredulously. _You can't pull up my battlesuit, terran._ Tarquin stood of his own accord.

"Lieu – eh. Captain Tarquin Victus, Turian Blackwatch, classified operation," snapped Tarquin, pulling off a salute. "Requesting immediate return to Hierarchy territory to continue my operation!"

"Yeah. 'course you do." Jim just shrugged. "Sorry, man, but I got my own timetable here, and I'm damn curious what you people are up to." Someone pulled up a chair, and Jim sat on it, clearly intending to be there for a while. Another terran, orange-furred, pulled up her own chair and sat down, her body contained in some kind of glowing skin-tight suit.

"So, we're gonna ask you some questions, since we just saved your ass," continued Jim, before gesturing to his new associate, "and I'm afraid I just brought a really good fact checker, so you best be shootin' straight, you feel me?"

The orange-furred terran winked at him. A sinking sensation set in Tarquin's gizzard.

"Don't worry, junior," said Jim, smiling. "I'll go easy on you. I did know your daddy, after all."

* * *

 **Next Chapter: Liara**

 **A/N: I am now writing at least 2k words a day as a new writing regimen. You may have noticed that one of my other stories has already updated twice in the last few days. Now this one updates. Expect this to continue unless I become seriously injured or ill.**

 **It's well past time this series wrapped up. I'm sorry this chapter is not spent with more familiar characters, but we're going to have a big old Tuchanka union at long last. Expect more updates to come. Two thousand words a day. No excuses. I am six days in so far, and going strong.**


	10. Keng and Queen

**Liara**

Dekuuna offered a rich harvest.

The once-endless plain of grass now presented only Creep, stretching in all directions as far as the eye and mind could see. The trees now grew bulbous and scaly chitin in place of their bark. And, most fortunate of all, the zerg here grew both massive and squat beneath the crushing 4 gs of gravity. Liara herself did not feel it, as she maintained a biotic field to keep almost weightless … but the hunter killers here had no such luxury. The glorious hunter killers, whose slithering passage left deep furrows in the soil.

Despite their might, these zerg remained as mindless as the rest. Even the dekuunalisks, despite their propensity for speech, proved to be empty of much beyond rage and appetite beneath the ranting. Liara reached out for their minds and claimed them as easily as a zergling's before filing them beneath a rachni queen for closer coordination.

Once, her numbers could only have swelled so far, limited as she was without Cerebrates of her own. Now, the hum of the Swarm entwined with the songs of the rachni, creating a rich melody that would shake the galaxy's foundations. _There is no limit to what we can do now. And there is no limit to what we_ must _do._

The last of the dekuunalisk herds entered the maws of her three freshly-grown leviathans. Over the hills and far away, the rachni's own ships, forged from Dekuuna's metals and borne of blueprints carried by countless Rachni Queens, started their engines, each carrying a payload of brood warriors. _Zerg or rachni?_ It was all Liara could do to keep herself from giggling. _Yes!_

The Torrasque was never far from her side. It was to be her sword and her shield, from now until its final death, which may never come. Liara had already set aside a cavern for it, deep inside her own Leviathan. If it fell, it would gestate there. _And it will be a hard death._ Its scales felt lumpy and thick beneath her own fingers, grown over from countless battle scars. Thessia did not suffer the weak any longer.

"Two planets claimed," said Abathur. "Good. Queen of Ruins can select either for central hive."

"The Reapers are coming for these worlds," replied Liara, shutting her eyes and feeling out into the dark. Already, the stars around them were going out. _They're coming …_ "They are already on Thessia. Heshtok. And now Tuchanka." _And Duran … he's coming as well._ For some reason, Liara shivered at the thought of his face and his message. _He could have saved me at Eden Prime. He didn't. Then he wanted me to follow him. And now I know why._ It didn't feel quite like Sovereign – she didn't feel the dull hate and growing despair she felt back then. But it did feel personal. Sickening, somehow. The idea that this _creature_ was, somewhere out there, looking for her specifically made it all … disgusting.

"Zerg Swarm done running," said Abathur, and Liara sent a surge of assent in his direction. "Good. What is next move?"

"Heshtok."

"Vorcha genetics malleable. After asari, most precious addition to the Swarm. Approve." There was a time Liara would have lashed out at Abathur for that kind of insensitive remark. But these days, Liara understood him well enough that malice did not enter it. And frankly, he was right. _We are remarkable, aren't we?_ Something about having a coterie of witches felt oddly reassuring. She looked forward to facing down the enemy with her sisters. "Swarm will meet oldest enemy in battle?"

"Yes." Liara felt for Heshtok, so distant. Darkest shadows crawled on its surface. "One of Daggoth's ugliest battles was fought there. Once the Overmind died, he recalled it almost fondly."

"Vorcha only respect strength witnessed firsthand. Must root out individual tribes to complete victory. Slow going. Few resources to consume. Vorcha grew on waste of world." Abathur paused. "Original plans. Feros. Ilos. Parnack."

"I still want the Thorian," said Liara, remembering that creature all too vividly, "and to see if the other end of that backdoor relay is still open. But there's no time." The Reapers swept through the Exclusion Zone far too quickly to allow. Liara had to pick up what pieces she could and get a move on. "As for Parnack..." Liara reached out. Something frigid and hungry reached back. Liara retreated before it could get a grip. "…The Tal'Darim are there."

"Tal'Darim. Need essence." Abathur seemed to drool at the thought … figuratively, that was. He was always drooling in actuality. "How long on Heshtok?"

"We will not be remaining on Heshtok for any longer than we have to. It will not take long for the reinforcements to arrive." Liara reached out to her Queen, her first Queen, the one who had birthed all the others. "My darling, are you ready?" The Queen gave a low trill in response. She, too, had been wronged by the Reapers through their sour note. Her own broods were still few in number, but they were ready to fight. _We will provide the numbers. They will provide the coordination._

The unthinkable now came to pass on Dekuuna. Not one zerg remained on its surface. The Reapers would arrive to find the planet barren of the life they sought to cleanse. One day, perhaps, the elcor who had been forced to abandon their homes might return there and rebuild. _My gift to them. Perhaps Thessia will one day experience a similar fate, once the Reapers leave._

Liara, eyes shut, gave her people the nod. The rachni burst into song. Seven leviathans rose into the air. And for the first time in centuries, rachni vessels took to the stars.

"Bound for relay?" queried Abathur, watching Liara with what might have been his equivalent of respect lurking in his eyes.

"We cannot use the relay system any longer. The Reapers are everywhere." Liara heaved a deep breath. _Proof of concept time._ "The Overmind once flung Daggoth to the far side of the galaxy to begin his conquest of Citadel space."

"Remember. Better times."

"Yes," agreed Liara hesitantly. "It could not replicate that feat easily, but It sent Daggoth a sizable distance, even on a FTL scale. My proposed move is far closer, comparatively."

"Queen will attempt warp?" Abathur tilted its head, the drool now pooling into a different crevice in the leviathan, creating two little puddles. "Considerable energy required. Robust psionic matrices necessary."

"Can you feel it, Abathur?" asked Liara, staring at her Weaver-of-Genes with burning eyes. "With the rachni propagating my control, can you feel the energy?"

"Can feel. Not sure if enough."

"Has to be." Liara shrugged. "We have no right to exist if it does not."

"If does, will become most feared force in galaxy." Abathur bobbed his head, either in thought or anxiety. _If he can feel anxiety._ "Have not had such mobility since Overmind."

"Indeed. But it remains to be seen." _If this fails, the strain could kill me._ But she had done all she could. Thessia and Dekuuna had been harvested down to the last larva. Her hive clusters filled to bursting, her leviathans swollen with eager troops. _But if it does not work, or if we cannot even take Heshtok, then we do not deserve to fight this war. We … I have a role to fulfill. The Queen of Ruins._

 _It is time to bring some ruination._

Liara planted her heels and wings firmly into the leviathan. She reached for the Void, that place between places where distance ceased to matter. _Cold. Feels so cold, here._ She could feel the numbness creeping into the tips of her wings, then up her arms. Her knees began to shake. Even as her queens sang all the louder, even as her zerg beat their wings and roared to the heavens, it was not enough. Not close to enough. The Overmind had millennia to perfect its craft and master the warp. Everything was just too … heavy. _Wait._

Blue light coursed through Liara's arms, sending the shock of cold back to the hell whence it came. The light surged through the leviathan, coating it in an azure glow. Liara cried out, sending the command to the rest of her Swarm. All zerg who had ever tasted Element Zero understood. They planted claw and scythe to the floor and spread their own glow through the ground they walked on.

The pressure in Liara's mind subsided, the numbness replaced by a sense of raw power. Each moment, the leviathans lightened, going from the combined mass of multiple dreadnoughts, to the Destiny Ascension, to a single dreadnought, to a heavy cruiser, down down down…

In the space above Dekuuna, in the outer reaches of the planet's blasted atmosphere, the emptiness of space shimmered and tore. Purple light shone from the inside of the enormous portal. For the first time in much too long, overlords, guardians, and leviathans stared down a warp rift.

"How?" croaked Abathur, looking down at the kneeling queen, long fingers twisting and plucking at each other in confusion and agitation.

"We call it the Mass Effect, Abathur," said Liara, voice echoing with the power she now channeled. "Best remember it."

"Combination of biotics and psionics." Abathur snorted in approval. "Worthy of Overmind."

The leviathans surged forward. Liara laughed in triumph as the first beast reached the edges of the portal and distorted, their head and limbs stretching out as the great rift sucked them in. Another leviathan followed, weighing less than a dinner plate. Then another. Then Liara, her laughter reaching a crescendo, felt the ground beneath her lurch once. The blue glow faded. _We've been pulled through._ She felt the rachni vessels and other leviathans fall in behind her. _Here. Heshtok._

As her ships snapped into existence just outside the orbit of the galaxy's largest cesspit, Liara became distinctly reminded of the time she had walked in on two colleagues of hers at a dig tacitly pocketing some shattered remnants of prothean pottery. _Still go for a lot on the market, last I checked._ She remembered the sudden guilty silence as she entered the room, the lingering stare, followed by the explosion as she tore into them (well, politely and calmly, like mother would have wanted, but still.)

Liara could feel that same sensation as she looked down on the Reapers who assaulted Heshtok. She stared down at them. They stared back, not quite believing what they saw. _And now, here comes the explosion._

" **T'soni is here."**

" **The Zerg Swarm…"**

" **Abominations. We must preserve."**

The Reapers began to rise from the planet's surface like so many leeches who had had enough fill. Liara's Swarm moved to meet them.

 _It needs to be a combined assault. Their smaller Reapers we can take on the ground, which should also up the chances of survival of our Leviathans. They won't let us run rampant on Heshtok … and if we do, we can set up spore cannons._

"Prepare to unleash all sacs," ordered Liara. "Loose formation. Engage the larger targets first." Liara turned to Abathur, then actually stepped up to him, closer than she could ever remember getting. "Make sure my spawning pool is ready. I … I think the psi matrix is strong enough. If I fall, I should be able to come back."

"Unless slain by Dark Templar." Abathur's words came out so blunt that Liara almost laughed. "Irritating defect. Need Nerazim essence to counteract."

"I don't think their essence would grant us an immunity, Abathur," replied Liara gently.

"Must try."

Liara smiled at the servile abomination before sending a signal to her leviathan. On the slick purple wall to her left, a sphincter opened immediately. A small part of Liara, a small, dying part, cringed in revulsion. The rest of her readied for combat, an electric buzz running through her entire frame. She vaulted inside the sphincter, which shut behind her with a squelch.

For a moment, all was dark. Then, everything shifted hard, making Liara's heart sing. She was falling, no _flying_ , her sac screaming through the upper atmosphere of Heshtok, its exterior smoking from the raw friction. All around her, her broods came barreling down in their hundreds and their thousands and their millions, some shielded by barriers, some not. Lasers cut through some – the desperate efforts of a panicked Reaper's point defense – but there were simply too many. Like so many races had discovered to their dismay during the Great War, no amount of preparation could fully keep out the Swarm. _Here we come._

The sac's impact with the fetid earth jolted Liara hard. Yet no sooner had the sac stilled in the fresh hole it had made, its rear opened, letting the smog-choked light of Heshtok enter Liara's sac. She leapt from it, blue and purple energy rippling through her wings and arms. A Reaper Destroyer stared her down, the red firing chamber contracting as if it were a pupil.

" **T'soni!"** The Reaper let rip a roar that made the air ripple from the bass.

Liara dived from the air as the Reaper fired, its beam cutting a fresh smoking valley in its wake. More pods fell from the sky as the ship fired, bursting in the rotten Heshtok earth like rotten fruit from a tree. Yet the Destroyer stayed focused on the one threat, the true threat. Liara heaved in a deep breath and charged, her body suffused with biotics. She hit the Reaper dead in the firing chamber, wing first.

The Destroyer buckled at the impact, and Liara clung to the great machine as it faltered, one of its four legs actually losing its footing and making it stumble. She reared back one of her free fists and let the biotic warp build inside it. The Reaper's firing chamber, larger than Liara herself, shifted, looking up just in time to see its unwelcome passenger's fist smash into it.

The Reaper screamed in a bone-crushing bass, making Liara grit her teeth as her entire carapace vibrated. The Reaper, slowly, like a skyscraper, trembled and then fell, Liara with it, clinging on in a mix of fear, disbelief, and exhilaration. It lay there, Liara standing atop it, its legs moving feebly as it tried to regain its bearings. Liara now raised a biotic empowered foot. Before bringing it down, she looked up, smiling. Zerg converged in all directions, bearing directly for the fallen titan.

Liara brought her foot down hard, feeling something crack beneath her heel. With a smile, she leapt into the air again, just in time to see the first of her ultralisks and zerglings get to work with talon and scythe. The Destroyer groaned, its legs twitching as her warriors set to work, like so many insects setting on a corpse. _Did you see that, Sovereign, from whatever cold hell you inhabit? This was just the first of many._

Liara set to earth. Her Witches surrounded her, heads tilted, mandibles clicking questioningly. A single rachni also bounded up to her, its song thick with anticipation.

"Let me get my bearings. I need to see how the orbital battle fares." Liara knelt down and listened, letting the low roar of battle in the back of her mind come to the forefront. _Daggoth had the luxury of being a giant brain, and hence unfit for combat. I do not. Strategy and battle must come hand in hand._

 _Great gouts of blood pouring from a leviathan, freshly cut by a Reaper's beam. Mutalisks melted by point defense systems, unable to get close enough to deliver their wurms. Guardians destroyed in orbit, trying to slip in with the sacs._ _A trio of Reaper Dreadnoughts hold the orbit. One leviathan already dead. They cannot get within range. But the Reapers do not want to leave the planet's atmosphere._

"We need the spore cannons," declared Liara, opening her eyes and looking to her troops. She broadcast her thoughts out, out, _out,_ to the whole planet. "Take out the destroyers. Aim for the firing chamber if you can reach it. Cut their legs from under them if you cannot." The ground shook as a particularly massive sac hit the soil. A huge shadow reared from it, blotting out the sun from Liara's perspective. She smiled.

"Grow the spore cannons," she commanded, and the Witches moved to protect the drones as they set about readying the hive clusters. Her Torrasque cantered over to her, head lowering and scythes sweeping aside in a bow. She climbed atop the Torrasque and readied herself.

"Queen!" came a shout. "Our queen, our queen!"

Vorcha looked down from a mound of earth above them. They stared down with red eyes, first at Liara, then at the now-still corpse of the Reaper, its body crawling with zerg. "As he promised! Queen came! Queen is here!"

"Rally your forces, vorcha," called out Liara, trying to contain her surprise. "The Swarm will claim its own."

"Live for the Swarm!" screamed the vorcha back, vanishing over the lip of the mound's edge as they hastened to comply. As Liara reached out around her once again, she realized that, through the cacophony of her own brood, fighting and dying, she could feel countless eyes looking back. Not quite subservient, but still … excited. Happy to see her, even if they resisted her tugging at them, trying to take full control.

 _Not yet,_ they thought back. _Keng must know. Keng must tell us!_

Liara had little time to dwell on such things. The Torrasque hungered to wet its blade on Reaper abominations, and Liara was only too happy to oblige. In the distance, horns sounded. Beneath the horns, the roar of Reaper heavy infantry.

"Defend the hive clusters!" Creep already covered much of Heshtok, and now Liara covered it in fresh hatcheries. Hatcheries which would soon be hives. The Reapers, already incensed, must have viewed this fresh outrage as truly unforgivable. In the eye of Liara's mind, she could see the four-legged Destroyers converging in all directions on the fresh organs, each with hate and destruction on their minds.

Liara bid her warriors charge. The Torrasque gave a throaty roar and drew up alongside the dekuunalisks, each of them bellowing their own monotone war cry.

"Threatening gurgle: The Queen of Ruins has claimed this planet. And she will have it."

"Booming proclamation: Live for the Swarm. Die by the Swarm."

"Vicious snarl: We are in the ground beneath your feet, in the skies above. You cannot escape us."

The dekuunalisks let their six appendages snap from their backs. Liara followed suit, her spines readying inside her wings, feeling like so many splinters she had to pull. She released them with relish, sending toxin-coated death hundreds of meters into the air.

Spines fell like arrows amid the Reaper's converted marines. They shattered barrier and rent armor, making some stumble and others fall. And still both sides charged towards one another, fearless at the behest of their leadership, one seeking to liberate, the other to purge. Liara could see newer creatures, large and possessing turian heads, amidst the converted terran infantry. _Good. Our ultralisks will have someone to wrestle with._ Liara let her wings fall back to her side as the distance closed. Both sides met in a scream of carapace and chrome.

Liara sliced downwards and out with her wings, decapitating some nameless batarian abomination which groaned as it fell. She sent up a singularity, catching luckless converted infantry in its swell. They floated up and out, helpless as her hydralisks feathered them.

Her ultralisks met the turian abominations as promised, scythe locking with their single great mechanical claw. Liara's Torrasque effortlessly smashed his own opponent's claw aside and drove forward with its head, smashing their foe into the ground. A single slice of the Kaiser blades ended any further resistance.

A Reaper Destroyer landed with a thud a few hundred feet away. It lit up the earth with its beam, sending zerglings and vorcha alike ablaze, vaporizing all in its wake. Its barriers flickered as every dekuunalisk in the area began flinging their spines at the ship as one, bellowing monotone insults all the while. Meanwhile, up above, a handful of guardians came to an ominous still just above the destroyer. _The firing chamber. Aim there!_

The guardians belched, and green spores flew from their mouths. The Reaper Destroyer screamed as its barriers finally gave out, just in time for the mother of all bugs to start splattering on its windscreen. It re-aimed, looking high. The rachni and ultralisks knew this was their time.

They came in close as the Destroyer swept through the helpless guardians, whose final defiant volleys made the Reaper groan in pain. It looked down too late to see Liara, wings flashing alongside her Torrasque's blades.

Wingtip and blade alike sliced through the bottom of the Reaper's clawed leg, scattering wires and severing servos as they cut through. As they passed through, the Reaper's stump came down with a thud, and it struggled to maintain balance on its three legs. From above, the mutalisks came screaming in, tongues wagging at the fact their foe no longer had full range of motion on its single gun. The glave wurms flew out, aimed straight for the joints, bouncing inside the Reaper with gusto while the rachni began their frenzied climb up the Reaper's remaining legs.

"Queen of Ruins!" screamed the vorcha as she returned to the melee. "The Queen, the Queen is here!"

Fires lit across the planet. Vorcha surged from their nests, sensing the long-promised turn of the tide. They joined ranks with the zerglings and banelings and charged the enemy head on, keeping them back from the hydralisks and dekuunalisks who set on the enemy with quill and claw.

The trio of Reaper ships remained hovering in orbit, unsure of how to proceed. Their Destroyers below, perfect for eliminating enemy armor and basic infantry, were too ungainly to contend with a foe that attacked from land, earth, and sky simultaneously. Liara dared each Destroyer to attack her and fell on them hard when they did. All the while, the hive clusters grew, the vorcha carrying in fresh resources for the drones to use. The first spore cannons were laid down, their membranes swelling and pulsing. The Reaper Dreadnoughts began to descend, making Liara's heart race.

Her leviathans edged forward from where they waited beyond the planet's atmosphere, maws dripping with saliva and blood. One Reaper turned back towards the leviathans, tendrils extending. A flash of light announced the severing of one of her leviathan's fins. But they kept charging, the rachni ships and scourge darting around them.

The tens of thousands of kilometers closed to mere thousands. The leviathans spat forth their acid and readied their tendrils, but the Reaper kept firing, parting flesh, sinew, and bone with each fresh blast. One leviathan screamed its last as the beams finally cut through the spine and several arteries, its limbs twitching as life and control fled. Then Liara's leviathan closed the distance to the critical hundreds of kilometers. Its own tendrils flashed out, its biotics activating. The Reaper shuddered in place but nevertheless drifted forward, yanked hundreds of kilometers and into the waiting maws of three leviathans.

Tentacles pierced hull. Jaws gripped the guns. A leviathans gripped the Reaper at either end as the third held it in place with its biotics. They pulled. With a scream that made Liara's spine tingle, the Reaper came apart in a small explosion of metal and fluid, its severed halves drifting apart slowly in the stellar breeze.

The two remaining Reapers held steady in high orbit, their beams sweeping fresh hive clusters with flame and fury. It was too late, though. Much too late. The Reapers, for all their power, were restricted by sight lines in a way that Liara's "primitive" forces were not.

The true danger of the spore cannon came not from its payload. No, it came from its ability to be fired in an arc. Liara opened her eyes and looked to her hive cluster. The vorcha around her roared in triumph as the membrane burst and a spore cannon sprung forth, glistening green payload ready. It pointed to the heavens.

"Commence barrage."

Across the planet, regardless of the curvature of the earth, the spore cannons fired. The globs of acid flew in their deadly arcs. The Reapers, both bearing directly for Liara, halted. Their point defense systems surged into action, zapping each glob as it approached. Liara watched with a grin on her face as each single glob became several super-heated globs that slammed into the Reaper's barriers and began eating into the armor. Meanwhile, her leviathans descended.

 _They want so desperately to kill me._ But they were out of range, out of time, and they had not the means. As they struggled onward against the barrage of acid, they realized the leviathans had entered the atmosphere. The Reapers turned upwards, guns blazing.

Liara winced as her first leviathan got caught by the twin beams of the Reaper's blasts. Three quick bursts and the entire beast fell in two steaming pieces, its innards spilling thousands of feet to the ground below. Her four remaining leviathans reached out with their tendrils, Liara's own beast pulsing with biotics.

This time the Reapers fought as they were dragged in, their guns digging under the leviathans as they were pressed against them, burning the carapace at point blank range. Despite their grip, another leviathan died, a smoking hole burned through its head. But the survivors held on, tentacles rearing back. A Reaper screamed as its main gun came ripped free, only to be silenced as the acid finally ate through the armor, exposing the core for the killing stroke.

The final Reaper's entire spine glowed as it unleashed one final blast from its mounted cannon. One more leviathan groaned and released its grip as the beam shot straight into its mouth and through the length of its body. It fell to earth like a stone. But that did not stop Liara's leviathan biting down hard down the length of its body and shaking viciously. Parts flew free from the Reaper – chunks of its leg guns, main armor, its insides – until at long last, it flew apart in all directions, scattering its ruin across hundreds of miles of Heshtok.

Then, as the machine carcass crashed to the earth and finally came to a steaming rest, Liara breathed. _The test. I have passed the first test._

 _Daggoth would have been proud._

Around Liara, without her willing it, the vorch knelt as one, heads bowed. But not to her. She turned.

"Queen of Ruins." Sharp black teeth and a crooked smile. Horns atop a bright red carapace, thick with scarring. A vorcha, massive, almost seven feet tall, thick claws at its hands and feet. He towered over Liara … and then he bowed low. "I am Keng of Heshtok. Leader of Vorcha Swarm. Waited, have we. Waited long for the Daggoth to return."

"Daggoth is-"

"Dead." Keng nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes. Overmind, too. We weep. The galaxy weeps. Our greatest minds slain before the enemy could be met." He gave her a piercing glance. "But Queen of Ruins remains. She fights."

"She wins."

Keng's grin grew wider. "Yes. Victory."

"We will have to find some way to counter their dreadnought's reach," Liara said, looking upward. "That was not an equivalent exchange. And we caught them by surprise." She looked back down to Keng. "We adapt. Are you ready to join the Swarm?"

"Our people waited." Keng nodded. "Yes. We are patient. We join willingly. Immortality you gave us, and claws to dig, and carapaces to shield. We will repay our debt to the Daggoth and the Overmind, and find new place in galaxy. Not as vermin, scurrying at krogans' feet." Keng smacked a clawed fist into his other hand. "Now as warriors of Swarm. Saviors of galaxy, as the Daggoth wished it." Keng gave Liara a sideways glance. "Much to tell Queen, has we."

"And I will listen, provided you listen." Keng nodded, intent. "Instruct your people – they belong to me, now."

"Yes, yes, endlessly, yes."

"We are to leave the planet in forty-eight hours, galactic standard."

"Long has Heshtok been home … but never pleasant home. Take us somewhere nice, yes?"

"And prepare to make landfall in Tuchanka. Expect Reaper presence." Liara almost smiled as Keng's face fell.

"Not so nice. Cold place, broken. The Foolish Ones dwell there, now."

"Foolish ones?" asked Liara.

Keng gave Liara a humorless grin this time.

"Infested krogan. Viscerators. They will not bow to you, oh Queen of Ruins."

Liara stared at the wasted landscape around her, consisting entirely of newly-thriving hive clusters and the broken bodies of Reapers that they grew atop of.

"They will soon learn to. Pack your things."

* * *

 **Next Chapter: Zeratul**


	11. Heart of Darkness

**Zeratul**

The stars shone bright over Menae, but the fires of Palaven burned brighter still. The turians had managed an impressive feat here, converting the entirety of a moon into an armored fortress, complete with oxygen and countless places to hide, fortify, and ambush from. As a Nerazim, Zeratul wished he had found this place centuries ago, and used it to train younger Nerazim preparing for their Walk. _Hidden from turian eyes, of course. That would be part of the challenge._

As a Prelate, however, Zeratul's primary opinion of the moon was that it was a poor place to fight on and a miserable place to die in, especially if one was a turian. _To die in sight of the homeworld but not standing atop of it? Theirs are hearts of steel._ He could hear their final gasps now, the feverish thoughts either clinging to consciousness before slipping away, or simply easing into the Void with an unspoken whisper, letting go of life and pain with an acceptance that had been forced upon them. _Adun toridas, soldiers of Palaven._

Zeratul crouched alongside a few other Nerazim inside one of the moon's many craters, waiting for the signal. From where they hid themselves, they possessed an excellent sightline of Menae's most gruesome horizon, what one turian general called "the murder wall." A half-circle of crashed ships, some turian, some geth, one of them quarian, ringed the moon's surface in an uneven fashion, rising in the peak here, a split geth cruiser, before shortening here, to the still-burning bridge of a lowly turian frigate.

"Tyrador Third Tank Brigade, in position." The crackle of a terran voice made the Nerazim look at each other. Ulrezaj silently drew a finger alongside his glowing green warp blade. "Siege mode engaged! Targeting system locked. Hope you boys are right about this."

A stream of clicks and chirps echoed into the protoss's minds. _Every day, the geth grow easier to understand._ Something about this made Zeratul uneasy. Nevertheless, it was reassuring to know they were in position in high orbit.

"All right, we're pulling the trigger."

"If this works, it will be a feat worthy of Tassadar," murmured the young hunter, Korazun.

"Indeed," replied Zeratul, closing his eyes and remembering his protégé's face. "And it will be vindication – vindication that our ways still have a place in pitched battle." _Concentrate now._

The muffled booms of 120mm cannons heralded the first stage of the proposed plan. The outside of the Reaper dreadnoughts remained an infuriatingly hard substance to penetrate, the twin layer of thick kinetic barriers and heavy armor requiring far, far too much firepower to reliably penetrate.

Combat data indicated, however, that once the first incision was made … well. Widening that hole was not quite so difficult. The guts lacked the same robustness as the skin. The trick was making that first cut. _I do not believe any of_ _us have assassinated a ship before._ Well, the Executor had come close. But from she had said, what little was left of that Reaper welcomed the death.

"Multiple confirmed impacts! No visible damage. Second volley!" The guns boomed again, making the ground shake a little. "Multiple confirmed impacts! All right, he's, he's turning. Going to tank mode and hightailing it – get on that thing!"

"It does not need to step in the crater," said Zeratul, eyeing his companions, "only come close enough. Do not be afraid to take some risk. The situation demands some recklessness."

"I would still avoid the lasers," replied Ulrezaj dryly. One of his hunters gave a small chuckle. Almost as if in response, the familiar bass boom of a Reaper ripped through their crater. Zeratul could its presence, languid and enormous as a Shakuras glacier, turning its vast will towards the little terrans who scurried away from it. _No sense of anger, from what I can feel. Just … tired._ _Why won't these children-_ But Zeratul shook his head. _No. Don't get pulled in. Hold fast to the here and now._

The ground shook again, this time a lot more violently. The Reaper oriented itself towards the new "threat," its targeting systems likely trying to determine how best to acquire line of sight as the tanks zoomed over a freshly destroyed barracks and out sight behind a hill. Another boom as the dreadnought took a hesitant step forward. _Are we really going to kill something two kilometers tall?_

It was that, or admit that without their war machines and the Khalai's fleets, they were nothing. Reaper ground forces had nothing to assassinate, no leadership to disrupt. It was their ships or nothing, and Zeratul had no intention of sitting the war out on the deck of a void ray. His place was here, with his hunters, in pursuit of arrogant prey. The Reaper took another step forward. A shadow fell over the crater. _Another step forward, friend._

The Reaper remained unaware of them, even as Zeratul hesitantly reached out again. _Just another insect beneath its feet. Another fly in a room full of them._ The being felt unbearably distant, somehow, like the physical form was just some kind of…

Zertaul shook his head again. _Was that how Raszagal came to madness? Did she gaze too deep into these void spawn?_ It was undeniable that these creatures were linked to the void, somehow. They stank of it. Yet the connection they made should have been impossible. To submerge oneself so utterly should inevitably lead to the destruction of the individual. Entropy should be incapable of producing or sustaining life, after all. And yet, here the creature stood. Alive and tall. Thinking. Fighting.

The void-borne ship took another step forward. A massive metal finger hit the earth with the force of a cannon, its enormity all too obvious at this close a distance. Zeratul and his warriors did not cry out or give any indication that now was the time. They knew. _Adun toridas!_ They silently faded into smoke, feeling for the first handhold.

Zeratul found his in a bit of cabling that snaked out of the Reaper's leg like a leech. He looked down and saw all but Ulrezaj clinging to other bits of cable or jutting metal. _Has he fallen?_ But Zeratul looked up and saw Ulrezaj dangling ten feet above him off, smugness radiating from his lanky form. _Smartly done._ Zeratul tapped the beacon on the wrist he hung on from, letting the geth above know that now is the time. _I will not let these terrans down._

The orbital barrage came on command. Above, the stars winked once, announcing the incoming hail of mass effect rounds. With a whistle, the top part of the Reaper's hull ignited, its barriers flaring as it deflected the barrage. Now, _now_ the creature thrummed with what Zeratul could feel was … anger. Deep, burning anger. Where the other races begat only exhaustion or mild disbelief, the geth got _hatred._ The Reaper immediately extended its leg, causing Zeratul and the others to hold on for dear life as their view went perpendicular to the Reaper … then above it!

 _Down._ Zeratul dived from the leg as the Reaper discharged a blast, sending a crimson beam upward at its unseen foe. Zeratul fell blade first towards the Reaper's body, surrounded by his brothers. They landed as one, clinging to the folds where the sheets of anomalous material met.

As one, their blades ignited. _It will likely feel this._ The trick was to get inside before whatever surface defenses it had detected them through their cloaks. Zeratul glanced at Ulrezaj to his left. The warrior nodded. All five Nerazim plunged their blades in as deep as they would go, extending the blade further once it became embedded, the beam now tickling the Reaper's insides. The dreadnought boomed once as it realized something was wrong.

Where all other material parted as cleanly as cloth beneath a heated metal blade, the Reaper's chassis _stuck_. Zeratul shut his eyes and dragged the blade as hard as he could across the surface, cutting all the way through. His fellow hunters cried out in exertion and triumph as each warp blade left a burning cut in the Reaper's hull.

The heat built in the Reaper's "skin," likely an autonomous reaction. _Like the body of an organic. Like a fever._ Zeratul's shields began to sizzle, but the Reaper had a long way to go before he himself would burn. He pulled his blade towards him now, working towards creating a clean square.

The Reaper boomed again, only for another geth barrage to answer it. The heat climbed another few degrees. One of Zeratul's hunters moaned as his shields began to strain.

"Finish it," grunted Zeratul, now pushing the blade away from him. _Over halfway done._ Someone cried out in triumph above him and dropped out of sight, an enormous chunk of smoking metal falling seconds after. Then another. Then another. Then Zeratul realized he was the last clinging to the Reaper.

It boomed once more. Zeratul's shields now flickered far closer to his skin than he would have liked. _Beginning to feel the pinch._ He pushed the blade the last few inches. Then, knowing he was out of time, he let go with his other hand and grabbed his still active wrist, letting his body drag the blade downwards.

The warp blade came down in a scream of metal, sparks showering from the incision. With a grunt, Zeratul deactivated the blade as it met the edge of where he had first made his cut, creating a rough square. Then he fell free, the ground coming up fast. With a whirl of void energy, he landed in a puff of moon dust, shaking a little. The metal he had just cut loose fell seconds later behind him, sending up a plume of dirt and smoke.

"Wounded," said Ulrezaj proudly, clapping Zeratul on the shoulder as he stood.

"Indeed." Zeratul looked up, wincing, at the Reaper's body far above. The holes were small, relative to the rest of the ship, yes, but Zeratul could see them. And he could feel _pain._

"General Janus, we have opened the Reaper's belly," said Zeratul, his mind reaching to the general at Camp Tarkus, two clicks away. "We are ready."

"Erm, yes." The general spoke aloud in his command bunker, making his staff look up at him in confusion. _It's the protoss_ mouthed the general, making Zeratul chuckle. "Praetor Mohandar, we are ready to move. Cruisers in position."

"We need to get clear." Zeratul bounded off with the others, loping over the moon dunes and clear of the soon-to-be mobbed dreadnought. The Reaper swept with its scanners but did not realize the one who stung it were Nerazim. Zeratul watched it from his fresh perch over the battlefield as it found nothing, nothing save another barrage from the geth.

Realizing, perhaps, that the tanks were long gone and it had perhaps been tricked, the dreadnought tucked its legs in and began to rise, its foremost limbs still pointed upwards like an arachnid's, occasionally firing off another of its, hrm, magnetohydrodynamic cannons.

Only now, as it rose, shadows snaked across the heavens to meet it. Turian heavy cruisers, guns bristling, flying side by side with the slowly rotating void rays. Zeratul's eyes almost watered just looking at the things – such a tightly bound mass of energy felt painful to those properly attuned. _The pilots make such a sacrifice … but it is a worthwhile one._

"Channel the light of Aiur," murmured Zeratul as the phase crystals began to shine from the void ray's insides. The turian heavy cruisers flew close, barriers at full. Their purpose was not to inflict damage, but to soak retaliatory fire. Half the crew already waited at escape pods. _Our hearts beat in sympathy for the other half._ Zeratul knew they had performed this duty before, for their dreadnoughts. It was expected of them. Still, not turian relished the day he became just another layer of ablative armor.

The Reaper's lower guns uncoiled. The first blast glanced a heavy cruiser, its barriers bursting in a shower of sky-blue sparks. Then the void rays closed the distance.

With a thrumming pulse, the beams of all seven rays found the same wound. The Reaper screamed immediately, its entire body contorting in a way that metal simply should not be capable. All guns fired now – a heavy cruiser began to list, its hull in flames. Another, rent in half. Another blast made a void ray's shields flare – a hit, a palpable hit. But now, like Zeratul's own blade, the void rays began to drag their beams across the craft like a paint brush over canvas, leaving bubbling metal in their wake.

The Reaper boomed out another yell, its colossal limbs flailing. The cruisers fired now, their targeting solutions found. They emptied their cannons into the creature's bubbling guts, making metal burst forth like a spray of vomit.

"Yes," breathed Ulrezaj. Zeratul nodded.

"Yes."

The Reaper began to sink to earth, its limbs now drooping. With the finality of a stone dropped down a well, it descended, coming to a muffled crash to the moon below.

"General, we have a confirmed kill, repeat, confirmed Reaper kill." The cruiser captain sounded exhausted. " _Vigor_ and _Justice_ have sustained total damage, most of their crew gone. Good exchange, returning to patrol. Over."

"Roger that, Captain," called back the general, breathless. "Good work everyone. Prelate – if you could return to base, we await your arrival. Out."

"We are needed," said Zeratul, meaning it in more than one way. "A fine kill, Nerazim."

"Would that we could strike the final blows ourselves," replied Korazun, a little remorsefully. "We will not always have such support."

"The smaller Reapers' armor is not so thick, and their firing chambers are vulnerable when open." Zeratul gave Korazun a reassuring nod. "No one can slay these larger ships alone. Now, we return."

The hunters returned just in time to see the terran tank brigade (heroes all) trundle back into base. The turian outpost still looked a thing of beauty to Zeratul – ten-foot-high steel walls rimmed with wire at the top, turian guns pointing out of every slit. Bigger guns lurked inside, none of them large enough to even scratch a Reaper, but certainly powerful enough to reduce any enemy infantry to its base components in fairly short order. As Zeratul crossed the threshold into the base, cloak fading, a humming filled his ears. _Barrier generator strong enough to hold even a Reaper, for a minute or two._

Turian soldiers inclined their heads or even saluted as Zeratul and his cohort passed by. Zeratul thought he even heard one turian mutter something about Adun. He resisted the urge to reach out with his mind and find out who. _They are all so exhausted. I need not join them in that exhaustion._

The general waited at a command table, a haptic overlay displaying the closest battlefields this side of the moon. Six dreadnoughts still remained in play, disgorging mutated heavy infantry left and right. _I doubt we can repeat our own takedown that many times without sustaining our own casualties._

Of course, if that was what was demanded, than Zeratul would do it. He knew the turians demanded nothing less of their own troops, and he would be damned if a warrior of Shakuras fell short of an alien's expectations. As they approached, crouching beneath the flapping of the shelter's canvas, Janus looked up at them, the fatigue obvious in his eyes.

"We need more dreadnoughts, more soldiers, and more time," he said glancing to an aide who made a note of it on her haptic laptop. "More time above all. The plan worked?"

"Its repeatability is in question, but yes." Zeratul inclined his head. "Your warriors are quite brave."

"We do not commend turian soldiers for merely doing their duty," replied Janus curtly, "but thank you. And thank you again for opening that one up to an easy kill – any time we can take one of these things down without risking a dreadnought is a real win in my eyes." Janus glanced at his aide, who continued to type away at the glowing yellow laptop. "It will take time before we can arrange something like that again, as you mentioned. In the meantime, loath as I am to waste talents such as yours, all I have to offer is gruntwork. There are a considerable number of bodies between us and our nearest supply station, and flying things in invites Oculus fighters."

"Our blades are ready." No one in his cohort protested. _We are not above a bit of raw bladework now and again._ "They will not see their death approaching."

"If these things can even be called alive," muttered Janus as his aide kept typing away. "Half a click to the southeast. Now, we-"

As one, the Nerazim warriors clutched their heads. Some spike, small but hot, dug into their skulls. Lights flashed all over the camp as all the screens, even the aide's laptop. Zeratul looked up just in time to see a face, a protoss face, red-eyed and masked, erupt from the static.

"This is Highlord Alarak of the Tal'Darim. We come to parlay with the Turian Hierarchy." His voice was equal parts mocking and commanding, yet Zeratul did not for a moment doubt that whatever arrogance he sensed was at all unearned. At the edge of the system, beyond the Reaper's dead zone in the warp, Zeratul felt a new presence. Hard, like diamonds. Sharp, like a blade.

Hungry. Like a zerg's.

"I sense … ah. Perfect." The face on the screen turned, facing Zeratul directly. "So, you are one of the Nerazim? The one they call Prelate. And you stand with a general. I will be with you directly."

"Duran's people?" asked Janus as the aide frantically tried to regain control of her keyboard. "About time they made an appearance." Zeratul stared at him. The turian shrugged irritably. "Not that it's a good thing, mind. I merely meant that they talked up their intent to fight but then never bothered to show up. About time we heard some word of them."

"They intend to kill us," reminded Zeratul, only for the general to shrug irritably again.

"Like fuck they will. There's not a turian standing on this moon that will let that happen."

That sharp presence drew closer, but then halted. The air shimmered within the shelter, making Zeratul stand back. The figure clad in black and red robes, stood taller than him, tall as perhaps even Praetor Fenix before being wounded. He surveyed his surroundings with calm interest before fixing his gaze on Zeratul, who had to stop himself from taking a step backwards.

"At last. I wondered when I would meet one of the sons of Shakuras." Alarak reached out with a translucent hand, as if to somehow touch the Prelate. But he stopped before drawing too close, his eyes narrowing. "And I feel the Executor in orbit. Ah – but I thought all in the Khala needed intact nerve cords?"

"Who are you?" asked Ulrezaj, stepping forward. The Highlord's eyes widened in amusement.

"I am your new future, little one. I am the One Who Waited, the One Who Obeyed, the One Who Quiets. I am Highlord Alarak of the Chosen, that which you know as Chosen, and I say that you have fallen far from the xel'naga's expectations, o child of shadow."

"What would you know of the xel'naga?" asked Zeratul, but the Highlord only laughed.

"We remember what you have all forgotten or were never privy to. We were chosen by the Amon, instrument of the God's will, to carry out this final war. The Khalai were intended to fight alongside us, but have fallen short. So many things have fallen short." The Highlord paused. "And you, Nerazim, were never a part of the plan to begin with. Much like these wretched terrans."

"What plan?" asked Ulreza, but Zeratul raised a fist to quiet him.

"What do you want, o Highlord, he of the lofty titles and even loftier proclamations?"

The Highlord looked ready to respond, but a turian rushed in, waving a datapad. "General, there's-"

"Be silent," ordered Janus, not even looking at the turian. The turian fell silent, but his mandibles twitched in panicked urgency.

"I want the Reapers destroyed and the galaxy cleansed of the Gods' failed experiments," said Alarak, voice low and smooth. "Zerg. Khalai. Nerazim, if we must. If you insist. I would see our future secured and left in the hands of those best suited to leading the galaxy forward." He raised his transparent hands upwards. "Of course, we know of whose hands I speak."

"Of course." Zeratul tilted his head to the side. "And what will be needed in trade?"

"The Khalai are to return to Aiur and await the return of the xel'naga," spake Alarak, "for the day of their arrival draws near. All Khalai, across all worlds. The Nerazim are to submit to us while we determine their worth, and the turians are to obey our instructions as we cleanse the Reapers from the orbit of Palaven." Alarak nodded to the frustrated silent turian. "This one was about to notify you of the Reapers' fresh movements. They feel my presence. They converge on the servants of the one they hate above all."

"Duran."

"Not Duran!" Alarak's eyes blazed. " _Never_ Duran! Duran was a lie for those too stupid to see past it! Perhaps he is Javik to some, but to us, we Firstborn, he is and always will be the Amon, the Avatar of Vengeance."

"The Reapers have abandoned Palaven's orbit and disengaged our fleets, sir," said the turian breathlessly. "Orders?"

"Our mere presence frightens the enemy." Alarak gave Zeratul a meaningful look. "You can smell it, can you not, Void Child?"

Zeratul could feel it now. Hate. Hate that the Reapers did not even feel for the geth. Did not even feel for the zerg. Hatred for how _wrong_ the Tal'Darim and their escorts felt. Zeratul shivered. Something inside him sickened, shuddered, threatened to wretch. Alarak turned to General Janus.

"And you, turian. I sense you have some authority. Will you accept our offer?"

"I would have to pass it up the chain to General Desolas, sir," replied Janus with a stiffness. "Then from him, to Primarch Fedorian."

"But were you to answer, here and now, on behalf of your people, if you had that authority?"

General Janus glanced at Zeratul. Something hard set in his eyes.

"When the last turian dies on the last planet, surrounded by foes, then and only then would you have my permission to set foot on our worlds." Janus waved at the apparition irritably. "I would say begone, before you taste the sting of Palaven's guns, or something suitably poetic like that. If I truly had my way, I would say nothing and just shoot you in the head for threatening my allies and wasting my time."

The Highlord Alarak regarded the general for a few long moments, while Zeratul's hearts swelled with emotion. Pride, a little. Happiness, just a bit. But vindication, vindication for standing with the "lesser races" when so many others would disregard them? Yes, yes his hearts filled with that.

"The offer will remain open. Pass it up the chain as you must but remember that we are here to save you all, if you would only permit it." Alarak turned one last time to Zeratul.

"And you, Prelate. We will see each other again soon. On a distant moon, as you realize the futility of trying to win a war you were never meant to fight."

"I knew not that the Tal'Darim were so gifted with prescience," replied Zeratul, voice laden with sarcasm. "What else can you foresee in your mind's eye, o Chosen?"

"Aiur in flames."

Alarak faded. The static and alarms vanished with him, all returning as close to normal as possible given the circumstances. Janus gave a heavy sigh.

"The Reapers are out of position people, but it won't last long. Time to take advantage of their strange target priorities while it lasts." Janus pointed to the previously silenced turian. "You, go get Lieutenant Chorfus on comms and get ahold of Desolas. Move, Corporal!"

"General," began Zeratul, but Janus swiped a hand through the air.

"Busy – your orders still stand. Cut your way through to the supply post and make sure we get that lifeline through." Zeratul turned to leave.

"And as I said, we do not require commendations for merely doing our duty." Janus looked back down to the battlefield, now temporarily free of Reaper silhouettes. "We stand with Aiur until the last of the bastards fall. Adun toridas, Prelate."

* * *

 **Next Chapter: Javik/Saren**


	12. The Scales Tip

**Saren**

A long time ago, the core of the galaxy burned so much hotter than it did now. The stars were younger, the skies above each world just a little brighter than what could be seen by the naked eye today. This was not a universe in its infancy – do not be foolish – but it was still a place that fell short of maturity. In these primordial times, before life and cycles cemented themselves in the Milky Way as we understand it, something swarmed within the dark depths. Immense. Cold.

They looked up above their roiling oceans and recognized that there was so much more to the universe's matter than heat and cold, air and water. They shaped their settlements around volcanic vents, fastened to dark stones by great hooks of metal that can no longer be found in existence.

You terrestrial creatures take for granted just how evolution has favored you. You emerge dripping from your wombs and your eggshells, and already gravity takes hold. Air replaces the amniotic fluid in your lungs. You arrive into the world braced for its unseen dangers – the pull of objects so large to dwarf your understanding, of the gases that press against your skin. When we finally pulled ourselves free of our oceans, it was to find the laws of physics themselves arrayed against us. We came crashing back into the waves below, shaken, some of us convinced that we were never intended to slip our surly bonds and break free of the water's tethers.

Yet we endured. We persevered. And we were the first. Someone had to leave the first footprint on the galaxy's sandy shores, and it was us. The leviathans.

The rest of the galaxy – nothing more than shallow pools in which the tadpoles dipped and swam. We claimed them as our own, as was our right. The dark of space became our new ocean, to be traversed in great pods, and we scattered to all corners of the known galaxy. There were no mass relays then – they came later – so the sprawl took millennia. But we were gifted with long life, even then, and with further understanding of the universe's laws came even longer lives. There was only one of us for millions of other sapients, fireflies dimming so quickly across the years, yet we dominated as no one ever would again.

 _Like the Reapers did._ My thoughts struggled against this barrage of information. A lip curled – or at least, the metal equivalent. Something in the tank pressed against the thick glass, something enormous and cold and distant. My eyes rolled back into my head as the iron grip on my mind tightened again.

Simple butchers. Terrified and exhausted parents of increasingly unruly children. They are nothing to what we were. _Nothing._ Pale shadows of formerly glorious forms.

I gritted my teeth in a grin, the biotics crawling up my arms as I began to resist. _Really? Then why is this the first the protheans have heard of you? Who are you, leviathans? Pale shadows of what you once were?_

"Insolent." The word came crashing like a wave against rocks, but I could only laugh. Laugh at the anger of a being so obviously beyond me being unable to do anything but … press against the glass. Throw out meaningless arrogance. Here we were, not just at the end, but beyond it. I knew, somehow, that we were all that was left of our respective races. The Reapers had taken everyone else. I needed them to give me purpose before the end … but they needed me far more. An agent, to be their hands.

"I am not the Avatar of Insolence, I am sorry to say." I wiped a bit of drool from the side of my mouth as my eyes rolled back, letting me stare into the face of my indignant ally. They resembled the Reapers, in their own way. Vast, vaguely nautical forms, only this one remained imprisoned behind glass. Legs hanging from a great, slightly ovoid shape. A nest of glowing eyes on the lower portion of either side of the carapace. And above all, size.

"You are nothing. The final bloodstain of a slaughtered people, standing at the threshold of vanishing entirely as time hems you in."

"I am Vengeance," I hissed, taking a step towards the glass. "Vengeance for a toppled empire. For so many slain innocents. I am the fire and the fury of so many burned worlds. And you will be the instrument of my retribution."

"We choose the instruments." The leviathan hummed within its great container. "You will obey our commands. The plan has been laid out. Our final act will be to break this cycle – but you must obey our every desire. There is no place for the error of the lesser races."

I barked out laughter. "I demanded nothing less from my own subordinates – and look where it got me. The Reapers' power is nearly insurmountable. What can you bring to bear that they cannot simply ignore?"

I froze, clammy fingers suddenly squeezing my brain. My tongue clung to the roof of my mouth as my eyes rolled back, seeing a place long dead, a much quieter galaxy.

We held such sway over the planets. None yet could rise to the stars without our assistance, and all was peaceful under our dominion. Rebellion crossed the minds of none – the tribute we demanded was meager, and none went to their beds without full bellies. You might have seen us as tyrants ( _and I did_ ) but no one suffered needlessly. There were no wars for territory or ideology – our racial gestalt kept us unified.

Until one day, there was a split. The space outside the galaxy remained unclaimed, theoretically impassible. Yet, through our racial memory, some recalled a time in which we scoffed at living above the waves, where the air froze our insides and the weight of the world pressed us down and collapsed our organs. They approached trans-galactic travel the same way our scientists back then did – just another problem to solve.

We did not lack for resources. The galaxy was tremendous in size – we had yet to explore much of it. Yet, a growing movement pressed that we slip our surly bonds once more and press into the void. We insisted, so many of us insisted, that the difference between emerging from our oceans and exiting the galaxy entire was enormous. The two endeavors simply could not be compared. And yet, these dissidents pressed ahead. They made undeniable progress.

And then, one inauspicious day, they simply vanished. Not a majority of us, not even close to such a number, but enough that no one could say they did not know someone who had departed on this foolish voyage. They journeyed beyond the edge of the galaxy, and for centuries we heard nothing of them. Life continued as it had. Our vassals remained content. Our numbers swelled from the tribute as it flowed from all corners of known space.

"And then they returned," I said. Something squirmed in my stomach. "But they were not the same, were they?"

"That which you know as Reaper," replied the leviathan. "They came screaming back into the galaxy, forms coalesced into … that. Cold and metallic. Yet we could not feel them as we could before. They were only distant echoes, yet we could still hear the screaming. The fear. They did not return to prove a point, nor to convert us for our own wellbeing."

"They saw something out there. Something that drove them mad with fear. They ran from it, changed themselves so they might better survive it. And, in their words as they gathered at the edges of the galaxy, looking down on our civilization, and the civilizations under us, they needed to give us a chance to survive what would come next."

"And they won?" I asked, a little incredulous.

"We suffered no wars. We quieted such conflict amongst our vessels. Only our expeditionary fleets possessed any armament. As I said, your evolution has favored you. Tool use came slowly to us. We hunted with tentacle and tooth. Weapons development meant little when we could use our psionics. Our wayward cousins … had taken a different path."

"So … your resistance was meaningless." A doubt nestled in my heart. _Perhaps these beings will not be my instrument after all._

"They designed their forms with the intent of killing more than us." The leviathan bristled within its tank, sensing my disappointment and doubt. "We did not anticipate their return. We did not know they would be hostile. We did not know there would be war."

"A war you lost." I grunted. "We share that, then, you and I. You have my sympathies."

"We do not need your sympathies. Only your cooperation." The leviathan's carapace lit with blue. "Our time nears its end. The gene pool has grown shallow. We must either lessen ourselves or fade entirely. We will not reduce ourselves as our cousins did."

"I thank you for that." Even I was not sure if I was being sarcastic. I looked up at the creature before me. My head pounded – not just from the contact, but from the thirst. The hunger. The wrenching sickness of lengthy cryosleep. I realized that I swayed where I stood. _Am I … close to death?_ The more I stood there, the more I recognized how horrible I felt. _If there is food, I must catch it. If there is water, I must fight it. But if I am sick or wounded, there is no one coming…_

"You are dying." I looked up at this strange aquatic creature, that which named itself leviathan. It stated the matter bluntly, without sympathy or concern. "We need you alive. For longer than currently possible. You must be altered."

"Altered," I rasped, voice suddenly catching in my throat. I coughed, doubling over. Yellow liquid leapt from the depths of my throat and splatted against the floor. I stared down at it with my lower set of eyes while the upper stared at the leviathan. _Is that blood?_ The leviathan's own gaze remained linked with my own.

"We can change you. You will be able to walk amongst other races as if one of their own. Live long past your allotted span." The leviathan's eyes shut. "And we will unlock the potential we sense within you. Our gift, what you would have called psionics, had your people been able to discover it." At the base of the tank, a small circle hole opened. The water remained in place, held by some shimmering turquoise barrier, but I sensed I could step through.

"How?" I asked.

"Physical adjustments must be made. You must come to me." The leviathan's tentacles twitched. It reached for the entrance. "You will not drown. You will not starve. You will not thirst. It is an old process, reserved for those who once served our expeditionary fleets. Outriders, we called them. They would ready the next species for our arrival."

 _Like indoctrinated refugees._ My throat tightened. The pounding in my head grew stronger. My vision blurred as the pain faded in and out with each pump of blood. The leviathan's low hum grew louder.

"You are dying. Come to me. Live, so that you may have your vengeance."

I looked up one last time to this would-be savior. A coward's question sprang to mind, yet I knew no one would ever judge me for asking. Still, the words came out halting, and I felt like a child again, clinging to my mother's leg as the fires drew closer…

"Will it hurt?"

The leviathan looked down at him in what might have been pity.

"Yes."

I nodded to myself and stood, legs turning to jelly. I staggered forward for that translucent net of energy. My hand smacked against the glass, all three fingers splayed against the smooth surface. The leviathan's closest tentacle reached out, pressed against the glass. The creature said nothing.

"…good." I shut my eyes and flung myself inside the tank. The rush of water filling my ears. Something cold and strong took hold of my torso and drove me in. Then, something cold and wriggling forced its way around each of my eyes, in my ears, down my thro-

Saren fell backwards from the crystal with a muffled gasp, feeling for his own orifices. He grimaced as the sensation of … whatever that was, did not fade immediately. _That was unpleasant._ It reminded him of waking up with an arm gone and covered in medical gauze. That same sense of violation, of being broken and remade. He flexed his metal arm, clenched it hard. _Takes a while to remake yourself after something like that._

Someone knocked at his door. _Makes me wonder if he's monitoring me for every time I use those fucking crystals._ Actually, that seemed more than likely. The bastard wanted so desperately to be understood. And, admittedly, Saren did have a smidgeon more, if not respect, than at least sympathy for the bastard. _But then, no one is born into what they are. It's all about what they do with what they are given. And what they can take._ Saren glared at the door, metal limb flexing and unflexing, making the pistons hiss. _You can read my thoughts. Come in if you like, you four-eyed bastard._

"And here I thought we might come to some kind of accord." The prothean strode in, armor clanking. Two of his eyes swept to the closed window, likely checking for further escape attempts. The other two fixed on Saren's arm. "A shame. I am pleased to see you are slowly working your way through my life's works."

"Riveting stuff."

Javik's eyes narrowed. "I have a limit to what I will tolerate, Saren. If someone saw through your eyes what you did on Tarsonis and made such remarks, how would you handle such a situation."

"I would execute my Spectre authority." Saren gave Javik a wide smile. "The fool would test my patience at his own peril. But, you see, no such dynamic exists between us. I would relish the opportunity to make you bleed, even if I know I cannot kill you."

Javik shook his head, clearly disgusted. "Still you do not understand. I can only hope you will eventually find the clarity to look at me with something other than blind hatred. A calculated hatred I will tolerate, but this willful ignorance…" Javik bared his teeth. "Have some respect, turian. You wish to judge me by my actions but have yet to bear witness to all of them. Reserve your appraisal of my being until the final chapter."

"I would still much rather watch Blasto Slays the Zerg Overmind on repeat than subject myself to … whatever that was." Saren gestured over to the crystals atop the table.

"Really?" Javik cocked his head. "As a survivor of the Battle of Thessia, I thought you would have been outraged by the film."

Saren brandished his arm. "I much prefer their retelling of the battle than what we went through. Besides, good production values, all-star cast, and a bunch of pissed-off hanar ranting outside the ticket box…" Saren breathed in through his nose happily. "…what was not to love?"

Javik stared at Saren with both sets of eyes, teeth half-visible beneath the curl of his upper lip. For what might have been the millionth time, Saren wished he could read others' minds. He was dying to know just what this prothean thought of his, well, "insolence."

"I know you have little with which to occupy yourself. I had hoped to help you with that … if you can stomach my presence."

"If it helps, Javik, you are hardly the only person who disgusts me." Saren shrugs. "I so rarely win the popularity contests among other Spectres."

Javik sighed. "I will shortly be disembarking our captured ambassadors back to their respective nations. I thought you might wish to consult with your Councilor before he departed."

"Sparatus?" Saren's mandibles shifted as he thought. "You're … letting them all go?"

"They serve no purpose here. I do not require hostages. This is a gesture of good will, one that I hope will be reciprocated." Javik shrugged. "Of course, I did still take their Citadel. And innocents were caught in the crossfire. Hanar are always … overenthusiastic. Nevertheless, the effort must be made to repair some of the damage."

Saren narrowed his eyes. "And will I be among those released from this place, Javik?"

"No, Saren." Javik stared at him levelly. "Not yet, at least. For now, you must remain here, with me. We still have some things to discuss." Javik turned his back to Saren, gesturing to the entrance. "And, to be blunt, you are among a handful of individuals I would prefer to keep close track of, as events unfold. You have an irritating habit of tipping the scales, one way or the other."

"Tipping the scales?" asked Saren, following the prothean out of the room.

"Terran expression. Forgive me – I spent too much time as Duran." Javik paused, drawing a gauntleted hand to his chin and rubbing it in thought. "It means – when both sides are at a stalemate, you have a tendency to act in such a way that one side suddenly gains an advantage. You are important. You, me, Jim Raynor, Nova, Liara, Kerrigan … people like that. Individually capable, even if we do not wield great political power."

Saren nodded. He had spent enough time with terrans to not go completely cross-eyed when confronted with their insane mechanisms of speech. This was more than he could say for many of the enlisted men he had met since the Great War – most of them ended up assuming their translators were malfunctioning. _But no. Just terran and turian ignorance colliding in the most delightful way._ Still, part of Saren could not help but feel amused that some of that nonsense had rubbed off on Javik.

They took an elevator down and emerged on the bright Presidium. Hanar now dotted the water below as well as the balconies above, their bodies flashing with bright blues, scarlets, and golds as they all passed by. _Spirits, they move fast in the water._ Two actually leapt over Saren's head as they crossed a bridge, leaving a trail of light blazing in Saren's vision for a few seconds. Below, he could hear the familiar rapturous chorus of "The Amon!" and "The Enkindler!"

"Does their constant reverence grow grating, Javik?" asked Saren, feeling a little irritated himself. "After what I saw on that last crystal, I would have thought you would have developed a distaste for anything with tentacles."

"Our people found the hanar before the Reapers ever found us," replied Javik flatly. "They alone remember us as we were at the height of our glory. Even I cannot claim that. Being close to the hanar almost feels like being close to…" Javik's face fell for a moment, making Saren stop cold. "…home."

"I see." _So that would be a no, then._

"Keep viewing the shards. You will understand."

 _Do I want to?_ Something prickled at the back of Saren's mind. _Do I want to sympathize with this thing? That killed so many C-Sec, turned against the protoss, and lied to us for so long? What if I get suckered in, start agreeing with what I see…?_

"Would that be so wrong, Saren?" The two of them came upon the second elevator and entered it. Javik leaned against the wall as the door slid shut, giving Saren a cool glance. "Hold to yourself and make your own judgements. If nothing else, just treat it as a history lesson so many academics in the galaxy would kill for. You are seeing events from before your people developed the ability to write. Do you recognize the significance of this?"

"You are truly that old, then?" Javik inclined his head. "Hmph. But that did not come cheap, did it?"

A shadow passed over Javik's eyes for a moment. "There is a reason that memory remains locked in a shard. Whoever said one cannot remember physical pain is a liar. I am well-rid of that memory. I know it happened, and that is enough. I need not recall the sensation."

"But I do?" Saren winced. "I don't think you'll be winning the Spectre Popularity Contest anytime soon either, Amon."

The doors slid open. They strode into what once would have been the C-Sec lobby, now scrubbed mercilessly clean by keepers. Even now, one scrubbed at a scorch mark left by the fighting. Drell patrolled the hallways in pairs, rifles slung over their shoulders. At every corner, a Tal'Darim warrior towered over everyone, glaring at all who passed by.

"The dock, then?" asked Saren. Javik nodded and gestured to the final elevator. "You're going to see them off on a spaceship?"

"No. I would simply prefer they not see too much of the station, and we are not using the dock. They might not know the location of the Citadel, but I would still like them to report as little as possible back home."

 _Like I will._ Saren's omnitool was filled with notes, the pile growing larger daily. _I hope the councilors and ambassadors have maintained a similar work ethic._

The elevator doors opened into a long train of aliens of far too many races – elcor huddled together next to the asari, who mingled with straight-backed turians, to whom the terrans clung oddly close to. Above them all, floating serenely, the Tal'Darim watched the proceedings. At the end of the dock, a portal pulsed and glowed. A single hanar clutching a datapad waited by the entrance.

"This one calls out Madame Lidya of Illium, bound for Nos Astra." An asari stepped forward, shaking a little. The hanar gestured with a single purple tentacle. "You need only step forward, Madame. You will be home in moments."

The asari stepped forward and simply … vanished. The hanar paused before calling out another name, this time a turian's. A surly turian girl stepped forward, naval pauldrons visible above the crowd. She looked about an inch away from sinking a bladed fist into the hanar's squishy body.

"Your people-" began Javik, gesturing to the collection of turians waiting for their turn, only to be cut off.

"You! I demand an explanation!" The terran ambassador (well, Saren thought he was. The terran political situation did not seem especially clear to him at the moment) stepped forward. Balding and clad in white robes, he sliced a hand through the air before Javik. "You cannot send me back without making clear to me exactly what your intentions are. As it stands, all I can say to my people is that you allied with monsters, betrayed our allies, but fell short of complete ruthlessness. Scarcely a complimentary tale, if I say so myself."

"Councilor Udina, I have told you all I intend to." Javik's arms glowed green, and Udina protested as he found himself nudged aside. "You will report what you have seen, and the DUAS and Dominion will come to their own conclusions. I think you will find that you will be nudged in my direction soon enough. Now, step aside, Saren needs to speak to Sparatus."

"Javik!" called out another voice, a woman's. An asari, belly rounded, heavy facial markings. _The Councilor. Never did find out who the father was … well, might not have been a "father" now that I think about it._ She stepped forward, and actually tried to lay a hand on the prothean's shoulder. Javik jerked his head, glowing green again. Tevos jerked back, her body suffused in emerald.

"Do not try to sway me, Councilor. You will not find me easy prey as you did the father of your child."

"I only want to know," said Tevos, falling to her knees, something bobbing in her throat. "Why? Why the protoss? Can't you just leave them be? Fight alongside us?"

Javik looked away sharply, something contorting in his face. Saren watched something flicker in his eyes. _Guilt, maybe?_

"Believe me when I say I did all I could for the Khalai." Javik's fists clenched. "What I am doing … what must be done … it is all out of necessity. I gave the zerg and protoss a chance. Now it is time to … cleanse everything." Javik gave Tevos a heavy look. "I advise you to forget your love. Do what is best for your child. Perhaps, in her, something will remain of them once they are all gone."

Tevos watched them both leave with wide eyes, but she did not weep. _Politician. Some of that had to be an act. Probably calculating something._ But she did not rise to her feet, even as the two of them vanished into the crowd.

"Councilor." Sparatus turned as Javik approached, his eyes widening when he saw Saren flanking him. "I have brought your Spectre to say farewell, as well as consult one another before leaving." Javik shrugged and waved a hand before turning on his heel. "Plot, or do whatever you like. I will await you by the portal, Saren. I am waiting for somebody to come through."

"Did he just tell us to plot?" asked Sparatus. Saren gave a dismissive wave.

"He reads minds. I must reluctantly admit that I can hide nothing from him." Saren looked up. "Nor those … things. This place cannot be infiltrated. No act of espionage will go undiscovered."

"Yes. I learned as much." Sparatus sighed. "Are you coming with us, Spectre?"

"It is forbidden," snapped Saren. "I have heard Palaven is in trouble. Is that true?"

"We have been hit hard. The prothean permitted us to see some reports. Would that I were still serving…" Sparatus coughed. "But, my place will be at the table with the other politicians. A loathsome state of affairs. And you are stuck here, when I am sure you would rather douse the flames that lick our home's surface."

"I would much rather be putting bullets in the heads of fools."

"We all have our ways of extinguishing fires." Sparatus put a hand on Saren's shoulder – his flesh and bone one – and squeezed. "Stay strong. You have not failed our people before, I don't imagine you will start now."

"What will you tell them when you get back home?" asked Saren.

"That Javik would make an unpredictable if formidable ally, and that he does not seem inclined to attack us. That being said, I would much rather we stuck to the protoss for the time being. Their strength is a known factor, as are their intentions. Whatever all this is, it started with an unprovoked attack on our Citadel."

"So…" Saren stepped in close, letting his voice descend to a whisper. "If I got the shot on him, I should take it?"

Sparatus paused, mandibles twitching as he thought.

"I … I would say that right now, we share a common goal: dead Reapers. And I would also say that, for all my personal hatred of that thing, it has given all of this … chaos … these hybrids … a direction for their hate." Sparatus glanced upward, at the hovering Tal'Darim. "I would not like to see some of the power here let loose without purpose."

"So … I should let the man live, if he exposed himself?"

"Use your discretion, Spectre." Sparatus squeezed Saren's shoulder again and released it. "That is, after all what we pay you for."

"Pay?"

The two of them broke into a short bark of laughter. Sparatus pulled Saren into a sudden hug.

"Do what you must, Spectre. Be safe out here."

"Here is extremely safe," admitted Saren grudgingly. "It's you I'm worried about. Stay away from anything with tentacles."

Sparatus bowed low and turned back towards the portal to wait his turn. Saren strode past them all, some kind of fire burning in his heart. _Determination. But to do what, I don't know._

"All done? Good." Javik nodded as Saren stood before him, the fire still blazing. "Someone will be coming through on this end. I think the three of us will have much to discuss … once these crowds are done."

"Councilor Sparatus!" called out the hanar. Saren watched his species' ambassador ascend up the steps. He paused, gave the Spectre a stiff nod, and then proceeded through the portal without fear.

"Amon." The Tal'Darim leader floated down from above. He gave Saren a look of what might have been interest. "I have news of Palaven."

"I imagine they have turned us down?" asked Javik, sounding disinterested.

"Despite my most moving speeches and desperate attempts to implore them, yes." Alarak's eyes crackled with red energy. "Their minds may change once we make our first move."

"Did you truly speak to them as an equal, Alarak?" asked Javik, eyes narrowing. "I find it difficult to believe."

"I spoke to them as I believed they should be spoken to," replied Alarak, tone hardening. "Perhaps I was too harsh. There were Dark Templar present. Their energies … unnerve me."

"They were certainly unplanned for," murmured Javik, making Saren wonder just what he meant by it. "Zeratul, I imagine?"

"Yes. I am anxious to meet that one in battle. If I can overcome one so entwined with Void energies…"

"Then the Reapers will prove no problem. I understand." Javik sighed. "Perhaps I should use the hanar as ambassadors instead. Assuming the other races can understand them, they might make a better impression."

"Yes. Humility ill-suits me, I confess it." Alarak gave Saren another curious look. "Tell me, Amon, did you expect the other races to come flocking to your banner once you stole their Citadel and announced yourself?"

"Two already have."

Saren's head snapped to Javik, and even Alarak jerked back mid-air, apparently in surprise.

"This is the first I have heard of it."

"The ambassadors will be stepping through momentarily. They will need a bit more convincing before they can fully commit but … I think they will know the score."

"Do you intend to show them the-"

"Of course." Javik chuckled. "There will only ever be one, so we may as well show it off. If nothing else, perhaps they will look at zerg leviathans in a new light."

"Will this all make sense to me at some point?" asked Saren, a little annoyed.

"Soon." Javik gave Saren a small smile. "Very soon."

The crowds thinned out, but Alarak remained.

"Biotics," he said, voice echoing through Saren's head. "I am told you have access to biotics."

"I'm not alone," replied Saren, jerking his head to Javik.

"I would still like to see them," insisted Alarak. "My people were kept separate from Element Zero, same as all protoss and zerg. I would see what your people are capable of."

"Even if it might hurt?" asked Saren. He thought he heard Javik chuckle. Alarak gave a haughty laugh.

"Yes! Try me, turian."

Saren pulled his right hand back and bared his teeth. With a flash of azure, he sent a warp forward into the floating protoss above him.

The protoss's shields flashed as the warp struck him full force. The protoss buckled under the blow, axis tilting from the kinetic impact. Javik gave a full-throated laugh as Alarak tried to right himself.

"A … decent blow!" said Alarak, still shaking slightly from the warp. Saren dearly wished he could follow with a few more, but already he could feel Javik's grip on his shoulder. "I see how such powers might be practically applied in battle. We do, of course, already have our own superior options…"

"Biotics are oddly effective against plasma shielding," said Javik. "I believe I will have to show you that, Saren. One day. A little trick my people perfected, against which there is no defense."

 _How else do you think I keep people like Alarak in line?_ Javik's voice echoed in Saren's skull. But Saren kept staring at Alarak, who looked back with muted alarm. _Yes. Now you realize your people were never fully defenseless against the protoss. The asari would also have posed a threat to them._

"Isn't that vindicating," muttered Saren. _Perhaps I will get my wish after all and visit destruction on the protoss._ But his heart was not really in that particular dream, anymore. The burning of _Relentless_ was so long ago, and doing anything that Javik approved of made him feel slightly ill.

At last, the final elcor trudged through the portal to return to … Eden Prime? Just where the hell did elcor base themselves these days? That left just Saren and Javik. _And the Tal'Darim. Such lovely people._

"It is time." Javik gave the hanar a look. "The coordinates. I imagine they are waiting."

The hanar, datapad still in hand, tapped out several new keys. The portal's color shifted to orange. Electricity crackled around it. A figure, a head, two arms, two legs, strode through it.

Saren took one look at who stood before him and felt his stomach lurch. _Oh no. No, no, no, tell me this is a trick._

Javik looked back to Saren with a smile.

"Like I said: people who can tip the scales, one way or another." Javik stretched out a hand to the new arrival. After a moment of silence, he took it.

"We have much to discuss, _Duran._ "

"Please," replied Javik, smile fading.

"My name was never Duran."

* * *

 **Next Chapter: James**


	13. Difference of Opinion

**James**

Jim did not know what precisely to feel. On the one hand, the last time he and Shepard had seen each other, it had been on the battlefield. At a distance, admittedly – and never even close enough to shoot at each other (not that shooting at marshals was her job) but, well, hell. Jim did not know quite what to say. Or think, really. A kind of greased snake sat coiled in his belly, and every time he moved or thought of that medic stepping down the ramp, it shifted a little and caught fire. Sarah looked his way.

"She's going to feel guilty about what happened," she said. "Trust me. She's in the same boat as you, but worse. Way worse."

"Think we can come to some kind of mutual understanding about this being awkward as hell?" asked Jim. Sarah gave him a sad smile and squeezed his shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak, but orange sirens went off.

"Bay 12 is opening!" roared Rory. "Cowboy, Spectre Girl, clear out! 'less you feel like getting a whole lot flatter!"

Jim rolled his eyes and dismounted from the crate he was sitting on. His metal leg hit the floor with a thud. It took him a moment to steady himself and walk mostly straight, away from the landing pad. Up above, the stealth frigate's prow materialized within the _Hyperion_ hangar, looking a bit singed. _Leftover scars from Eden Prime's guns?_ Jim shook his head. _We're all in the same boat now._ It took only one glance at the _Normandy's_ hull to prove that. The eagle and bolts had been repainted – Cerberus's sigil now adorned the side of the vessel.

The frigate descended, its engines adjusting for a vertical landing. Rory and Kachinsky fiddled with their respective consoles, making sure the clamps were ready for a vessel they had technically never been meant to hold. Nevertheless, the metal arms leapt out and held the vessel steady, and _Normandy_ came down for a smooth, if loud, landing. _Hopefully we can get her back up again._

"What do you feel from in there?" murmured Jim, nudging Sarah with his elbow.

"Rude to say, Jim." Sarah's gaze remained fixed on the Cerberus sigil. "There's a lot of anxiety and fear, though. Does that help?" Her lips pursed, and she glanced Jim's way. "And … at least two crew members are thinking they'll kill everyone on this vessel if anyone starts so much as whistling "Sweet Home Alabama." Mind explaining that to me?"

"I had _nothing_ to do with any of that." Jim crossed his heart with his right index finger. "Swear to God. Raider's Honor."

"Right." Sarah shifted back to watching the loading ramp. Jim sighed and followed suit, still not sure what to say. _She killed Tychus, didn't she?_ He'd only seen what happened at a pretty good distance. But from what they picked up afterward, she had to be the last person standing. _Tychus came through in the end. But then, so did she. Could I have done what she did? Turning over everything and everyone I ever knew like that?_ That was one question he would not ask. But he knew he had to ask about Tychus. If nothing else, just so poor Jack would know.

"Can you just … give me a hint on what to say and not to say, darlin'?"

Sarah sighed. "I'll let you know when you fuck up, Jim. But I hardly need to read minds to tell when that happens."

"You weren't nearly this cranky when it came to the turians," grumbled Jim.

"Special circumstances." Sarah held up a finger. "Ramp is coming down. Some familiar faces."

The ramp did indeed hiss and lower. For a moment, four figures stood framed in shadow, looking down on all of them like a team of badasses about to raise all kinds of hell. Then Jim's eyes adjusted to the bright lighting behind them and saw it was just, well Shepard – short, tan, brown hair tied back in a ponytail, looking more tired than Jim had ever seen her. To her right, a big man, but more broad than tall, a faux-hawk running up his head. To that guy's right, Joker, in crutches, making Jim a little embarrassed that he had been initially intimidated by the way they were framed in shadow. On the left, Kaidan Alenko, two fingers made of metal, hair cut shorter than Jim remembered. He was the only one that could meet Jim's eyes, and even he could not quite manage a smile.

Someone jogged up from behind them. Admiral Matt Horner adjusted his cap and strode forward, past Jim and Sarah. _It is technically his responsibility. He is the captain._ Jim and Sarah kept behind him. The four former UED soldiers came down the ramp to meet them, boots clanking against the metal.

"Admiral Matt Horner, Independent Terran Systems Alliance Regional Defense," said Matt, voice ringing clear. "I welcome you aboard our flagship, _Hyperion_ , so thoughtfully donated by Jack Harper to our cause. To whom exactly am I speaking?"

"Commander Amelia Shepard." Her voice came out hoarse, but clear, and she met Matt's eyes with a mix of defiance, raw exhaustion, and pleading. "CO of the _Normandy_. Cerberus."

"So, you are with Cerberus, now."

"Aren't you?" asked Shepard, a little confused. For a moment, her eyes locked with Jim's. They both looked away quickly. _Both felt a little lurch there. Oof._

"Despite Mr. Harper's repeated efforts, we have always found ourselves with prior obligations," replied Matt smoothly. "We also have slightly different methods, especially where rules of engagement are concerned. Nevertheless, we count Cerberus as friends of ours. Your crew is welcome on the _SSV Hyperion_." Matt clicked his tongue and turned to Joker, who shifted uncomfortably on his crutches.

"This was the vessel that brought down the _Norad II_ , wasn't it?"

"Sorry about that, Matt," mumbled Joker. "Believe me, I really was trying to avoid dealing a killing stroke on you guys. Your reactor core was fully exposed, a single salvo would have-"

"I am quite aware of that." Matt gave Joker a smile, making Jim inwardly sigh with relief. "I know things were … are … difficult. But I would like to thank you for holding back." Matt gestured with a gloved hand at the vessel around him. "And we did find a replacement, soon enough."

"And I didn't see you on the field, Kaidan," said Jim, stepping forward. Kaidan gave him a long look.

"Would have been weird if you did, Jim. Admiral Anderson put me in the brig because I refused to fight against you guys. Didn't see the good that would come of it." The big guy started at this.

"Really, Alenko? Damn. Surprised he didn't choke you out on the spot; Anderson always struck me as a tough son of a bitch."

"He really didn't want to go," whispered Shepard, sucking in a deep breath and pushing it out slowly. The big guy's face fell, suddenly looking incredibly guilty. Amy looked up at Jim, eyes moist. "I'm sorry."

Jim shrugged and smiled awkwardly. "None … none of us came out ahead in that fight, darlin'." He coughed once. Silence descended upon them. "Uh, don't know who you are…"

"Lieutenant James Vega, sir!" replied the big guy, snapping off a salute. "Um, technically Cerberus, but I'm more like an undercover UED advisor … guy. You know?" He coughed into a fist once, clearly trying to think. "I, uh, still report to Admiral Hackett. Officially I'm AWOL. You know how it is."

"Another James, huh? Do you prefer James, Jim, or Jimmy?"

"Uh, Lieutenant Vega for now, you know?" Vega rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, I know you're Jim Raynor, but uh, we just met. I usually go by James. Jimmy to my uncle."

"Right." Jim returned his attention to the star of the show, so to speak. "Well, we're all acquainted now. Can you and I…?"

Shepard nodded, looked around for a quiet spot. Jim leaned in close to Sarah.

"Just gonna be me, all right? But listen in, let me know if I fuck up."

"For the last time, Jim-" But Jim had already left, walking toward for a quiet corner with a stack of widow mines. Amy followed him behind. He turned around and folded his arms. Amy's eyebrows shot upwards.

"Your leg-"

Jim held up a hand. "Workplace hazard, Commander." He gave her a lopsided grin. "Rest of me got out okay. Wish I could say the same for Tychus." He paused, unfolding his arms. His own breathing got heavy for a second. Hands clenching and unclenching. "Wish I could say the same for Jenkins. For Anderson."

"It was horrible," said Amy, voice turning into a hoarse whisper. "Felt like a nightmare, turning on you guys like that. I could tell it was tearing David up inside, but it was the only way home. It was the only way Stukov would let us all go home."

"Yeah." Jim looked back over to Sarah, who was staring coolly his way, but gave no sign if he was, well, fucking up or not. "I … I get it. And what you did, it was…"

Jim could not find the words. He suspected they did not exist. So they just stood there, in a steadily moistening silence, while the rest of the crew in the hangar pretended they were not there and went about their business, pointedly not looking their way.

"I gotta know," said Jim, voice cracking a little. "I didn't have the best view – leg got pinned, you know." Jim lifted up his metal leg, which squeaked a little. "Tychus saw you guys were about to breach the command center and charged off. What … what exactly went down?"

"I don't want to go back there," whispered Shepard, briefly covering her mouth with her fist. "I really don't."

"Just once. Please. And it ain't for me, wholly. It's for Jack, too."

Amelia Shepard breathed in hard. Her brown eyes bored into Jim's own with the intensity of a spotlight. When her words came out, it was in a monotone, as if hypnotized.

"Horner had just rammed us and we'd evacuated in pods. Landed close to another squad, met up with Jenkins and Anderson. Moved in on the command center – knew elcor were closing in on the city but were still about a half hour out. Smoke and bodies everywhere, but the command center was in sight. Then we heard gunshots and the other squad started screaming about an enormous colonial tearing through them."

"He charged us next. Jenkins and Anderson tried to bring him down. I tried to keep them up, but Tychus got in close and smashed my nano-emitter. Jenkins tried to stop him, but Tychus got in close and…" Shepard shook for a moment. She did not need to continue. "It came down to David and Tychus, sidearms drawn. They both got in close. Held pistols to each others stomachs. Couldn't even tell who was firing, but they both went click. Then they fell."

 _So that was how it ended?_ But Jim could tell this wasn't the case. Amy looked up at him, throat clenching. She wiped her eyes quickly, as if embarrassed. Jim looked away while she composed herself.

"I was so angry. Scared. Sad. But so angry. He'd just … I knew it was him. I just knew. He stared up at me, through that broken visor. I still had my grenade launcher. Just flash grenades, but…"

"Still lethal in confined spaces. Like a helmet." Jim nodded. He'd seen the mess she'd left. "Okay. I get it."

"He asked me to," said Shepard, voice pleading. "He told me … "Don't puss out on me now, you bitch. Do it.""

 _Of course he did._ Jim looked away, his own throat clenching, now. _God. That whole situation was just … God._

"And that just left me and Anderson." Amy looked away, back to the _Normandy._ "No way to heal him. Horribly wounded. He told me that Eden Prime was beautiful, like Earth. That … we should not have been there."

 _In his final moments, he knew. Damn it…_

"Amy," said Jim stepping forward. He took her by the shoulder, squeezed as hard as he could against the firm muscle beneath it, but not hard enough to hurt. "Amy, darlin', thank you. And … listen to me." _The words, gotta find the words._ Amy looked up at him, plainly terrified at what he would say next.

"I'm not sayin' this because I have to, because we'll be workin' together. I'm not sayin' this out of obligation. I'm sayin' this because I feel it. What happened…" Jim heaved a breath. "…wasn't your fault. Not what happened on Eden Prime, not what came after. The people who died? On Stukov. And I don't think a damn bit less of you, or Jenkins, or especially Admiral fucking Anderson, one of the toughest, bravest sons of bitches I ever had the displeasure of being on the wrong side of the battlefield with. Ya'll might have been there for bad reasons, I get it. But…" Jim released his grip, shrugged. "…hell. I don't want you beating yourself up over things you couldn't control. And you couldn't even sit it out, really, could ya?" Jim shook his head. "You're a medic. Would have meant leaving your boys to die."

"David didn't send me down." Amy shut her eyes. "Didn't send any of us down. Only Kaidan spoke out against it, and he didn't even need to."

Jim glanced back towards the ramp with a renewed respect. _Well, hell. There's a man worth getting a drink with._ He made a note of it. He also realized, with a sinking sensation, that he might have fucked up at that last bit.

"You did what you could. Nothing else we can do right now, except work together." Jim released his grip. "Already make a pretty good team, _Hyperion_ and _Normandy_ together. We create a distraction, you blow up everything in sight."

"Reapers are still a tall order." Amy bit her lip. "Jim, this isn't even the hardest conversation I'm going to have today. Wrex – I really don't know what I'm going to do."

"You both had Grunt together," said Jim, immediately realizing how weird that sounded. "I mean, the two of you spent the most time together out of everyone on the _Norad II_. That has to count for something."

Amy wiped her eyes again. "May as well get it all out, now. Not going to shed any tears on Tuchanka. Krogan won't take it like you will. Have to put on a front." Her voice lowered back to regular pitch, a businesslike overtone setting in. "Fuck, but I can't look like I don't care. You know? I still can't believe they did that to him … he was really only just a baby."

 _A large, hungry baby that killed people on command._ But Jim had never been close to Grunt. _Wait, what did they do to him?_ But this was not the time to ask.

"Wish I could give you some advice, darlin', but most of my experience with krogan comes from looking down a gun barrel." Jim shrugged. "I mean, I can give you advice on what to do if that happens."

"I think the UED has stacked enough dead krogan on Tuchanka already," snapped Amy, brow furrowing. "Not … not that I'm UED anymore." For a moment, neither of them said anything. _Well, I think I did okay. She seems a little better._ "Get time to talk to those turians?"

"Yeah. Blackwatch, of all things." Jim rolled his eyes. "Here to disarm a big old bomb their people left under a major krogan population center a while back. Terrans aren't the only ones who get up to mischief, ma'am."

"We're all sons of bitches now," muttered Amy, throwing up her hands. "Right, so we have that to deal with on top of everything else. Anything else we should know about before we land?"

"Might want to talk to Okeer and Mordin, since we brought them along." Jim motioned for her to follow. "They're hanging out with Stettman, last I checked. You, uh, you know anything about this cure the UED cooked up for the krogan?"

"They kept me well away from Tuchanka. I asked repeatedly to be stationed there – thought I would be a shoe in given my experience with Wrex and Grunt." Amy folded her arms, but really it looked like she was just pulling herself in to somewhere else, where people could not reach her as easily. "Didn't find out why until Eden Prime, when I became acting Rear Admiral, when … you know."

"Stukov fucked the lot of us," said Jim, throwing a glance back her way. "Soon as you knew the score, you sought to course correct. Respect that. Respect that to my grave."

"Thanks, Jim." _An actual smile. Small, but it makes her look a hell of a lot less like a puppy that's just been kicked._ Jim thought that, then immediately saw how the muscles tensed in her arms as she kept them folded. _Okay, a pit bull puppy, maybe._

"Hey, Sarah. Glad you got off the Citadel." The ghost joined the two of them as they clambered up the steps out of Bay 12. She gave Shepard a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.

"Hey. You know what, me too." Sarah chuckled. "Saren of all people let me out, as soon as the place was hit. He'd been visiting me every day in C-Sec."

"Wish that bastard would just settle on either being a mass-murdering bastard or not," muttered Jim. "Well, I'm thankful to him for that. Hope he's okay – maybe he'll get shipped back out once Duran send back all the politicians." _…does he have to do that? Galaxy might thank him to keep 'em where they are._

"Don't think I ever spoke to Saren," said Amy. "Heard a lot about him. Never from you, though, Jim."

"Jim can't make up his mind on Saren, even if he just defaults to the line about Tarsonis." Jim shot Kerrigan a sharp look at this. "You can't lie to me, Jim, even if you can lie to yourself."

"Tarsonis was-"

"Don't tell me what it was," snapped Sarah. "I was there, Jim. It was something different to each of us. To Mengsk, a crowning achievement. To Adrien Victus, a gambit that went horribly wrong. To you and me, an atrocity. To Saren – his duty, something that he felt only he could do."

"He tell you this, darlin'?" asked Jim, giving Buck the nod as they passed by him coming out of a nearby bathroom. He stared, open-mouthed, at the three of them as they proceeded. "Or did you pull it out of him, without him ever knowin'?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "We talked about it, Jim, like adults. Sometimes you can't tease out the truth from someone until you talk it through with them, let them process with someone else. Saren started off thinking one thing, saying another, and gradually came out somewhere near the middle and stayed consistent from there."

"And where is the middle for him?" asked Jim, trying not to spit the words out through clenched teeth. "That killing a few billion people is just _a little_ over the line?"

"That what he did was wrong, but he would not have left another turian to shoulder that burden." Sarah gave Jim a pitying glance. "This is a conversation you should have had with him, Jim. Now I'm not sure you'll get the chance."

"Damn shame." The three of them proceeded in a heavy silence. Crew members darted out of their way as they made progress towards the lab, sensing the thundercloud that hung over their heads.

"If I might add to this," said Amy as they closed on the lab bulkhead, "Jim, it seems like there's a bit of a double standard. I did what I had to, and course corrected once I knew the score, like you said."

"Right," said Jim slowly, sensing a trap and knowing there was likely no way out of it. He folded his arms as Amy unfolded hers.

"But didn't Saren do the same thing? It's not like he went on working for Mengsk or killing human civilians once he knew what had happened. And I saw his arm – I know he got it on Thessia." Amy paused. "Saving you, Jim."

 _It's easy, just spouting the line. Not thinking about the impact the turian who should be a monster has had on your life._

"Fine, darlin'. You win. Saren Arterius is the greatest turian to have ever lived – maybe even the greatest hero the galaxy has ever seen. He deserves to be showered with roses upon his homecoming, since it is clear winnin' this war will be dependent on him and him alone." Jim thumped his chest. "Godspeed, you magnificent turian."

"Now we're getting somewhere." Sarah rolled her eyes again and gestured to the bulkhead. It began to slide open. _Showoff._ They stepped inside to (naturally) walk into another argument.

"…I'm sure I can neutralize the Evolutionary Virus's most debilitating effects this time," boomed Okeer, standing behind a table much too small for him, surrounded by delicate glass equipment that, in all honesty, looked far too fragile to be anywhere near a creature of his bulk. He paid the terrans no mind as they stepped inside. "Trust me, doctor, I have a lot of experience with both your handiwork and zerg regenerative processes. Can you state the same?"

"Plenty of experience with own handiwork." Mordin, still pale and scrawny from his time on Tuchanka, wearing a white medical suit that looked far too big for him, still stood his ground before a haptic projector, sliding glowing yellow slides around with great waves of his arms with his back turned to the large angry krogan. "Naturally. Dissected many zerg. Naturally. Told personally by vorcha – Cerebrate Daggoth feared me."

"Really?" Okeer blinked in surprise. "But all that proves is that you know how to take apart zerg, Doctor. Hardly a rare talent." Okeer gestured to their new guests. "These three could no doubt write a paper or two on how to accomplish as much."

"I mean, it's just squeezing the trigger until it goes click," said Jim. "They don't exactly give you a lack of targets to choose from."

"Hoped work with zerg tissue would have persuaded you that it is not option, Okeer." Mordin's waving grew faster, glowing images of DNA, tissue samples, and God knew what else flying across the screen. "Krogan injected with zerg tissue become zerg. Humans injected with zerg tissue become zerg. Asari injected with zerg tissue become zerg. List goes on. Very consistent. Evolutonary Virus designed by force more diabolical than anything naturally occurring."

"Are you saying you could not crack a cure, Doctor?" asked Okeer in mocking tones.

"Given time left? No, not enough time left to devise cure." Mordin breathed in sharply, pausing at the haptic display. "Worthy goal. Would have made list if time permitted. As stands, must content self with curing krogan. Failing that, neutralizing UED sabotage to existing cure."

"But if you had time?" asked Okeer, his voice a low rumble. "Do you think you could have done it? Be honest, Doctor."

Mordin turned on his heel, lengthy fingers stroking his chin. He smiled.

"Yes! Would probably have been worthwhile medical breakthrough – zerg tissue repair astounding, still cannot quite believe it. Would have taken awhile, though. Need to put together STG team." He paused. "STG probably already working on zerg skin grafts. Never asked. Should have asked! Will ask if get chance." He removed his hand from his chin and spread his arms wide towards the three guests. "Apologies, Raynor, Kerrigan, Shepard. Hope all doing well. _Normandy_ crew require medical treatment? Turians?"

"I am handling medical on the _Normandy_ , Doctor," replied Amy. "For the moment, at least."

"Turians are treating their own, doc." Jim stepped forward and shook the salarian's hand. _Never could get a read on salarians, but I always did like this one._ "Thanks for the offer, though."

"Turians," rumbled Okeer. "Better not let get them wind of what we're planning. Might just decide to call in the fleet and stop us."

"Pretty sure the Hierarchy knows the score, Ganar," said Sarah, leaning against a wall and giving the much larger krogan an unimpressed look. "Palaven is burning. They would welcome krogan intervention. And I wouldn't be surprised if they are already aware of what we are doing."

"More worried about STG intervention," muttered Mordin darkly. "Won't be surprised to see them on landing. Or get communique from them. Strange if does not happen. More worrying, maybe. Kept tabs on Tuchanka." He glanced back to his haptic screens. "Many tabs."

"Came in here for a reason, doc," said Jim, looking back at Okeer. "Sorry, "docs." We're about to touch down on a friggin' hornet's nest, and I wanna make sure we can get Wrex on our side so we can do what we gotta do. Can't cure the krogan without the krogan."

"Altered cure without krogan," interjected Mordin. "Can be done. Unwise, given presence circumstances, and perhaps impossible given new leadership. But still."

"All right," said Jim. "So – maybe it can be done, but we don't wanna. I'm pretty sure I'm in the clear with Wrex, seein' as we both kinda got fucked with the UED, but fact is, you and you," Jim pointed to Okeer and Shepard, "are probably gonna have to do some explaining. And you came in on the Raiders' ship, so if you can't explain, it's gonna end up being my problem, too."

"Wrex may not be as reasonable as usual." Okeer placed his palms on the table. Jim watched carefully, convinced the entire thing would tip if the krogan doctor angled his weight even a teensy bit. "Say what you will about the fool, but he is usually inclined to at least hear others out, even if he has already decided to blow them away. Now, well…" Okeer grimaced. "They killed his adopted son – my creation. And threatened his biological son. And now we're claiming we can make things all better."

"We can, though." Amy stood up straight. "We will. And he was … he was my son, too. We were there together, when the tank opened."

"You are no krogan, Shepard."

"And you are no parent, Okeer."

"All right!" said Jim, stepping between the two of them as the krogan's fists began sinking into the metal of the table. "Yeah, we got enough people wantin' to kill everyone on this ship without getting into it ourselves. Wanna cool it?"

Okeer gave a dismissive wave. "I have little use for the opinions of simpletons who will not be here in a century. She is free to feel and act as she thinks. Even if it results in Urdnot Wrex eating her."

"Between me and the doctor, only one of us is guilty of krogan experimentation." Shepard shrugged. "Whatever. Sorry, Jim."

"Do we have a plan as far as cures go?" asked Sarah, glancing to all assembled.

"Still working on whether to pursue nanite route and how." Mordin returned to his haptic display, hand resting on his chin again. "Zerg not an option; will not hear it. As far as dispersal – ruled out air and water – too slow and localized. But-"

"Atmospheric dispersal," rumbled Okeer. "Salarians installed something called the Shroud. Helped repair some of Tuchanka's atmosphere. Still intact. Still capable of spreading cures…" Okeer gave Mordin a meaningful glance. "…or modified Genophage."

"STG has used Shroud in past. Initial installation was made with easy modification of populations in mind, if necessary." Mordin did not turn around to face the grim-faced krogan. "Proven method. Krogan already converged on Tuchanka – could cure entire species."

"Fill them with the UED's death." Okeer shook his head. He turned his level stare to Shepard. "And I don't care what is running through your head, Commander. Using that cure would be like putting our species beneath a loaded pistol and trusting humanity to never pull the trigger."

"Operation Red Leather has been permanently terminated," reported Shepard, looking beyond tired. "Admiral Hackett has deactivated that protocol. The nanites might still theoretically have that function, but EDI is no longer capable of activating it under any circumstances. I suspect she would refuse to do so even if she did, anyway."

"Forgive me if I do not trust the words of a human nor the nature of a human-made AI."

"You're going to have to," said Shepard, eyes narrowing, "unless you're really dead-set on the Zerg Evolutionary Virus."

"Not an option!" called back Mordin from his board. Okeer bared his large square teeth.

"So, what I'm hearing is, we're exploring options," said Jim, heading off yet another argument in about three minutes. In the corner of his vision, he could see Sarah burying her face in her gloved hands. "But we're gonna use the Shroud, one way or the other."

"This assessment is correct." Mordin looked over his shoulder. "Will report when further conclusions made. For now, would request isolation. Okeer and I have much to discuss." He turned to Shepard, a single white finger upraised. "Would appreciate speaking with EDI, also, in regards to nanite composition and potential."

"If you have questions about dispersal systems, range, and replication of nanites, I can help you without EDI," replied Shepard, a little defensively. "Had plenty of training and experience on that. But yeah, for this particular model, I'll see if I can get you access." She paused. "Actually, I would like to see the specs for these things myself. Figure out how to neutralize them, maybe."

"That would be worthwhile," said Okeer, nodding. Shepard returned the nod, hesitantly. _First thing they've agreed on?_

"Then we may as well head up to the bridge, darlin'." Jim motioned for Shepard and Sarah to follow. "Matt'll be waiting. He won't hail Wrex without us."

No sooner had they stepped out of the bulkhead, however, the normally white lights of the _Hyperion_ flashed red. Klaxons sounded in the distance.

"Jim – bridge! Now!" Matt's voice rang through the metal corridors, devoid of the usual calm professionalism he was used to. "We've got a problem!"

"Aw hell," muttered Jim. "Maybe he did hail Wrex." _Or it could be Reapers._ Sarah gave him a meaningful look. _Aw hell. Thought they were busy with the zerg._

Their three footsteps pounded down the corridors, creating an almighty ruckus. Jim was a little ashamed to realize he easily fell behind Shepard and Sarah, and he could not wholly attribute it to his own leg. If anything, the fact there were no muscles to exhaust in the metal extremity should have given him an advantage, maybe. Still, he found himself at the back of the pack, so to speak, and not for lack of trying. _Spending the whole run up to the bridge chasing a brown ponytail._

The bridge featured a veritable hullaballoo of confused _Hyperion_ and _Normandy_ crew members, none of whom seemed to believe the glowing readouts on any of their screens. Jim gently shoved his way to where Matt stood at the helm alongside a sweating Joker.

"What's the problem, Admiral?" _Feels weird, calling him that._ But well, the man had earned it. _Put up with enough nonsense from me over the years._ "Reapers?"

"Worse, Jim." Matt inclined a finger to the viewscreen above. It slid down on a rail and presented the view. Zerg leviathans. A dozen of them. Overlords – hundreds. Queens, mutalisks, scourge, all of them wheeling about the larger creatures in uncounted hundreds, visible only as blinking lights around the bigger bastards, so many fireflies swarming around a light source. Behind him, Sarah clutched her head.

"Jesus," she moaned. "Psionic presence … big one. Looking this way. Haven't felt anything like that since…" She gave Jim a scared look. "…Tarsonis."

"We're landing," snapped Jim, stabbing a finger to the ground. "Right the fuck now. Let Wrex know – I don't think the protoss are gonna let him get away with denying us a berth." _Not when there's zerg._ He looked over his shoulder to Shepard, who bit her lip. "Think you're up, ma'am."

"Yeah." The tears had dried. Shepard's eyes looked haggard, with the beginnings of bags setting in. But when she gave Jim a nod, it looked stiff with professionalism, not suppressed emotion. "Cried all I'm gonna. Time to kick ass, I guess."

"At negotiations, Commander?" asked Joker, lips twitching.

"I got a fucking mating request from a Clan Urdnot female after Grunt's Rite," snapped Shepard, and Joker immediately shrank back. "Time to remind them why." She paused. "Admittedly, Anderson got three, but…"

"It's gonna be a pleasure to watch you work, Commander." Jim gave her a warm smile, which she returned. She gave Joker the nod, and the two of them left the bridge, probably to grab what they needed from the _Normandy._ That left Jim and Sarah to stand back while the flight crew got to work in getting the hell out of what was soon to be zerg space. _One more thing to worry about._

"I give her good odds of handling this," said Jim, trying to reassure himself more than anything else. Sarah only shrugged, her face mask of pain, likely from some mother of a headache.

"I'll let her know if she fucks up," she said through gritted teeth. "I'm good at that."

"Yeah." Jim paused. "Uh, how am I doing?"

Sarah tilted her head. "You're doing fine, Jim. You don't hate her, she doesn't hate you, now we just have to get Wrex included in this circle of love and forgiveness and we'll be set."

"Right." Jim decided not to mention that he had never included the words "Urdnot Wrex," "Forgiveness," and "Love" in the same sentence together, but of course Sarah still snorted with laughter.

The _Hyperion_ tilted towards the dust of the planet below. Urdnot Wrex waited on his throne below. The zerg closed from behind. The Reapers dotted the wastes beyond. Foes all around – made Jim feel thankful he had such superwomen on his side.

… _but Miranda isn't one of them, here with me._

Jim heaved a sigh and tried not to worry, even as the ship began to shake. _Just try to enjoy the sights here on sunny Tuchanka._

* * *

 **Next Chapter: Amelia**


	14. Deferred Judgment

**Amelia**

 _I can't say that I am sorry._ Saying sorry could be taken as an admission of guilt, that she had been somehow complicit in what had happened to Grunt. _I cannot say I understand what you are going through._ That was when the one of the first things taught in psychological first aid courses – what not to say to people who are grieving. Krogan psychology might have been different from human psychology, but she knew Wrex well enough that going for that angle would still be disastrous. _And I cannot say I can make everything better._ Because she couldn't.

"Tuchanka, huh?" James Vega leaned against a stack of crates, glancing occasionally at the _Hyperion_ drop chute they might soon end up using. "What's the weather like? The people? Any good food?"

"Nuclear winter, brutal, and inedible," replied Amy, raising a single eyebrow. "I think you'll like the krogan, though. They don't beat around the bush."

"Yeah," said Joker, slowly crutching himself around to face them, halting his inspection of the _Normandy's_ prow. "They have _ways_ of dealing with bushes." He gave his best evil cackle.

"One way or another, we can expect a warm welcome, Commander." Kaidan, rolling his eyes at Joker. "Even if said welcome is only warm because it involves fire."

"Geez, don't let me get too excited about meeting new people and going places." James gave a shrug of his huge shoulders. "Raynor seems cool, though. You guys are cool with each other, right?"

"Yeah." Amy spoke the words, but her mind drifted elsewhere. "The way it should be." _Don't puss out on me now, you bitch …_ Amy shook her head. She looked to her three comrades in arms, the men ostensibly under her command – although James Vega was the only one actually allowed to contact Hackett, which put him a little beyond her. _Have to ask. Have to know._ "A question." _A question I would not have been able to pose to Jenkins or Williams._ For a few moments, they all just looked at her.

"I mean, we could start guessing what it is, commander," said Joker. "Uhh, let me guess. I'm a Sagittarius…?"

"Are you ever actually funny, Lieutenant?" asked Amy wearily.

"Only to the children, Commander. You should see my balloon animals."

"Okay," said Amy, shaking her head and choosing to ignore the blatant stupidity, "my question is this: we have 300 UED people down there – Earthers like us – who were willingly experimenting on aliens and doing who-knows-what-else." She took a deep breath, not sure whether to press on.

"Still not a question, ma'am," prompted Kaidan gently.

"I'm sure you can see what I am driving at." Amy glanced behind her. Kachinsky and Swann manned consoles on the higher level of the docking bay. Her own people still sat safe and ignorant aboard _Normandy._ She lowered her voice. "Three hundred monsters. Complicit in potential genocide. And Hackett and Harper are asking us to get as many of them out as possible, ostensibly for the "war effort." I don't know about you but…" Amy heaved in another deep breath. "…I'm not sure how much I care about getting those people out. Do you?" _Innocents died on Earth. I would have saved them if I could. But not these bloody-handed doctors. Not the ones who carry death in tubes and syringes._

"Hell of a thing to say, Commander," said James, rubbing the back of his neck, making the tattoo squirm and stretch like an agitated salamander. "Shit, Lola, I guess I hadn't thought of it like that. They're our guys and we gotta pull 'em out. That's where I stand on it."

"You might want to put more thought into your orders than that, Lieutenant." James's head snapped to Kaidan, who held his ground even as James pushed himself from the crate and sidled up to him. "Trust me. We stuck to authority well past where we should have. It just ended in blood and tears."

"Don't know much about that Illusive guy." James snorted. "Hell, does anyone? But I know the Admiral by reputation. If he says we need these people, then I'll bring as many of 'em back with me as I can. Riding on my back, if I have to."

"And what if the Admiral turned out to be a shapeshifting demon or some shit?" asked Joker. James rounded on the pilot, finger pointing, mouth open, and then stopped dead.

"Damn, that's not exactly a stupid hypothetical at this point, is it?"

"We got our orders," said Amy, making the others fall silent and look to her, "but I think if it came between having a cured and allied krogan species or three hundred of humanity's worst … I know which I'd pick." Amy nodded. "And I'm not sure having both would be the better alternative." Amy held up her hands. "Telling this to you guys in confidence. Please don't spread it around." _The crew would probably not take it well. "Oh, Earth was not enough, now she wants to step aside and let aliens exterminate a few hundred more of us…"_

 _But we started it. And really, if I want to save these people, I cannot show too much sympathy. Wrex might think I would put their lives ahead of his people's. And given what they were up to down here … they put Kai Leng in charge of a camp, for fuck's sake…_

"They're far from home, Commander," said Kaidan quietly. "Afforded the same choices we were – serve or die. Serve or forever be lost to their families." His eyes locked with hers. "Not everyone can afford our kind of strength." _But did they at least make the effort? Did they protest._ Amy knew human psychology well enough, thinking all the way back to ancient tests like the Milgram Experiment. _Sometimes all it takes is an authority saying it's okay. And we were never taught to see aliens like how we see each other._

Still, she felt her stomach lurch a little at Kaidan's words. She gave him a nod, but inside, could not help but hate him a little. _Stakes just raised a bit._

"Five minutes until landing," boomed the intercom. "Crew to your posts. Two protoss praetors are waiting for us down there."

"We need to suit up, people," said Amy, nodding to Kaidan and James. "Joker, stay with the ship."

"Aww, do I have to?" Joker gave Amy a grin, only to let it die immediately at the expression on her face. "Right … I'll hold down the fort."

"Suiting up – couldn't they perceive it as aggressive? Ma'am?" Lieutenant Vega, staring stiffly past Amy's shoulder, a little sweat beading on his forehead. _Questioning a superior officer. Always a bold move. Can't blame him though – man stood guard outside my isolation unit._ And explaining her reasoning couldn't hurt. It might help him learn something.

"Krogan are big," said Amy. "Really big. And muscly. More than us, no matter how much we might try." She gave her own arm a flex at that. James gave her bicep what might have been approving glance. "They also don't like what you would probably call "pussies," James, when I'm out of earshot." James immediately reddened at this. "So, we want to look big and ready for a fight, even if we don't want one. Every krogan you see down there will be wearing armor." _Protoss too, probably._ She wasn't as familiar with how they liked to handle things, aside from shouting at people to do what they said before they were instantly vaporized.

"If we show ourselves to have a weak hand, Wrex will walk all over us." Kaidan nodded and began making for the _Normandy_ ramp. "I'll get right on it." Joker followed suit, but James remained behind, still red.

"Don't mean to question your orders, ma'am-"

"You're free to question your orders, Lieutenant," Amy said, "so long as we're not in battle. So long as it's not in front of most of the crew. This still isn't a democracy, but you have a right to worry." She clapped him on the shoulder. "I have my shit squared away for the moment, though. You have my word." _And the minute I stop handling it, I'll let you know._

"You got it, Lola." James nodded and jogged off, leaving Amy to ponder how she ended up with that nickname. _I mean, if that's what the history books end up calling me, I'll be fine with it. I mean, it'd be weird, but there are so many worse options._ She stared at the ramp as James ran up it. _Guess it's time. No use putting it off any longer._

Amy had dreamt, sometimes, of being back in the suit. Sometimes she was in battle – battles she had actually fought in sometimes, other times just shadowy nightmares involving blood, dust, and hidden foes – and sometimes she was just walking. Or falling. Or deep in water. Never comfortable.

Part of basic training, way back when, had been about becoming accustomed to essentially living in a suit. Completing basic involved spending a full day in it, performing simple activities around base, including marching, climbing, and running. Some people couldn't take staying in a suit – that was fine. Everyone had psychological quirks. Meant you would never be in the infantry, but hardly anyone joined with that in mind, anyway.

Others endured it, but it took a hell of a strain. Amy remembered one poor ensign who lost fifteen pounds in two weeks, simply from sweating inside her own CMC suit, and not from the heat. She had actually ended up in medical because of it, and put on a high calorie diet to try and make up some of the muscle she had ended up losing. Amy couldn't remember if the girl had passed or not.

And then there were a few, a lucky few, who did not give a damn about tight spaces. Who viewed the opportunity to put on a CMC suit, to increase their strength tenfold and really stick it to the bad guys, as what they were born to do. The ones who would inevitably tattoo "NBK" or some other infantile nonsense to themselves once they completed basic. Amy had not been one of those, but the suit never bothered her – learning to use it hurt way less than learning how to stick people with needles properly, specifically when it was her turn as the "dummy." _That_ she had hated. The suit – fine.

Now, though. Now she could understand why some people's breath started to come through in choked gasps, why their faces turned red and their eyes went wide. Maybe not because Amy finally understood claustrophobia – that remained a foreign sensation – but because the sensation of slipping into the suit, the smell of oil and rubber, of smoke and blood, would kick up all manner of sensations and recollections. _And I cannot let that show._

By the time Amy reached the armory, James and Kaidan already stood in their armored suits, gripping long rifles in their gauntleted hands. Even in the fully-enclosed Argent suits, Amy could still tell which one was James – he held himself with a bit more macho bravado, chest puffed out – and noted the way he watched her approach her locker. _Probably has to send some kind of psych evaluation or recommendation back to Hackett._ It irked her, a little, to have someone just below her have to second-guess or keep track of everything she did. But she could not deny the necessity. And a little more oversight among Expeditionary Armada personnel would hardly go amiss. _Not that I am among them, anymore._

The locker opened with a hiss, revealing the broad shoulders of her CMC-600M, freshly buffed, the soot, dust, and blood all cleaned away. She spared a glance at the suit's boots. _Covered in brains when I took them off. You'd never guess that, now._ Amy pressed the second button. The suit came forward on the short track. That just left the hard part. Amy hoisted herself up, fingers digging into the neck hole while her feet planted themselves inside the joint that connected the legs to the hips.

From there, it was just a matter of swinging herself over and making sure her feet ended up in the stirrups. Amy lowered herself slowly, hands on either side of the suit, until she felt her feet find the sweet spot. With a click, she locked in. _Okay._ _Still not the hard part._ She released the pressure on her palms and slid her hands in, feeling out for the handles. The arms of her suit twitched to life as she found them and squeezed. _Still not the hard part._ She licked her lips. From behind her neck, the visor popped out with a slight hiss of pressure. Amy shut her eyes. _Hard part._

The visor shut. For a moment, the suit's visor did not activate. Then, the readings flashed to life in a spray of green, and she could feel how close the suit was to her skin. _Like wearing a mountain._ Her knees began to shake as the sweat beaded up in her armpits, on the back of her neck. _Deep breaths._

Amy sucked in one deep breath. The suit's odor, a mix of her own body's smell and scents freshly applied by dutiful technicians, filled her nose. _It doesn't smell of smoke and blood, yet. Has the new car smell._ Amy's nostrils flared. She blinked once, twice. The readouts flared, showed her that the systems were nominal. She took a hesitant step forward, her foot pulling the stirrup and shifting it forward. She adjusted the handle of her left hand, raised it to her face. _It's still the same._

"Prepped and ready," she announced to her two waiting squadmates. They both gave her a thumbs up. "Let's go kick some ass." _Hopefully not literally, though._

The three of them drew quite a few more looks from _Hyperion_ crew as they marched through the halls in their armor. _Not too long ago, some of these folks were shooting at us, or people who looked like us._ Still, she heard at least one whistle of appreciation, although for all she knew it was for how clean all three battlesuits looked. _Only the best for the Normandy._ Her knees still shook a little, as she waited for the loading bay bulkhead to open. Something deep inside her really didn't like being in the battlesuit. Her knees kept knocking until the bulkhead opened and they moved again.

A small entourage of Raiders in blue armor crowded around a single figure in black. Jim Raynor turned and gave them a small smile, a massive gauss rifle planted against the floor.

"Always feel better seeing you behind me, Commander," said Jim, making Amy flush a little inside her suit. "Way I see it, we might be walking into either a krogan riot or a zerg rush. Glad to have a medic with me."

"So you will be coming down with us, then?" asked Amy. She hadn't been positive before. This wasn't wholly Jim's concern, after all, especially if he hadn't officially thrown in with the Illusive Man.

Jim jerked his head back to his right. Sheepishly, the two alien doctors stepped forward, one enormous and glowering, the other pinched, small, and prone to sharp movements.

"Running security for these two. Figure there's gonna be some folks that'll want 'em dead."

"Hardly unusual," said Mordin, sounding unconcerned.

"Survived more assassinations then you've had warm meals, Raynor," growled Okeer.

"Man, I hope I live long enough to get that jaded." Jim winked at Amy, who couldn't help but chuckle. "Darlin', what can you feel down there?"

Sarah Kerrigan, crouched by the ramp and listening intently, did not open her eyes.

"Protoss. Jim, they want me arrested."

"Well, that can wait." Jim yawned. "I imagine they'll make an exception, what with the zerg and all."

"Fenix does not seem inclined to wait, Jim," said Sarah through gritted teeth. Both Amy and Jim started at this.

"He's alive?"

"He's-"

The _Hyperion_ came to an abrupt halt. With a scream of metal, the ramp began to lower, apparently not of its own volition. With a final spray of sparks, it slammed to the ground, revealing not one, but two massive golden behemoths, twin guns pointed directly inside the loading bay, on either side of the _Hyperion._ Floating above them, body alive with electricity, a protoss high templar leered down at them with livid red eyes.

"I am Praetor Karass!" boomed the high templar, voice reverberating through Amy's skull as if it were a loudspeaker wired directly to her ear. "I command the Urdnot garrison here on Tuchanka!"

"Praetor Taldarin!" bellowed the machine on the left, its voice sounding no less mighty for being contained in a war machine, linked to life support. "Arbiter of clan disputes and official liaison between Khalai and krogan." _Motherfucker,_ that's _what the protoss consider a diplomat?_

The final machine paused a moment.

"And I am Praetor Fenix, leader of the Daelaam anti-Reaper task force on Tuchanka." Fenix's voice sounded like how Amy remembered it, just a little more subdued, with a sound of faint bubbling in the background. "Remember my face well, those of you who saw it when I walked among you, for never again will you see it. But fear not – my will remains unbroken! I am far from defenseless."

The terrans stared up at these three praetors for a few moments. Part of Amy wished she could read minds like Kerrigan could, for a moment, just so she could hear what everyone else was thinking. She heard James Vega take a step back from behind her. _Is this his first time with protoss?_ They always made an impression. Amy glanced to Jim, who frowned at the assembled protoss as if they were misbehaving children rather than, erm, their possible impending death.

"Three praetors seems a bit much for this ol' dustbowl," said Jim, cocking his head. "Still, it's good to see you guys, especially you, Fenix. Thought you died, back at the base."

"No Khalai ever truly dies, Jim Raynor!" proclaimed Fenix. "The Khala is our strength. Nevertheless, I have not passed on to it just yet. I was blasted and left to die, but my role in this war is not yet done. I regret coming to Tuchanka without full use of my limbs – I find these krogan most invigorating communicators! Would that I could my forehead to use against their skulls-"

"The Praetor will remember his purpose here," said Karass, more gently than Amy would have expected.

"My apologies, Karass. I see many former battlefield companions scattered amongst the crew, both new and old."

"Hell, man, we got Adrien Victus's son on board," said Jim, pointing back inside the ship. "What do you think of that, eh?"

"I would dearly wish to meet the son of Victus!" Fenix paused for a moment. "But it will have to wait. We would know your purpose here, Jim Raynor."

"Deliverin' those two." Jim pointed to the salarian and the krogan. "And these guys." Jim waved a hand before Amy, Kaidan, and James. "And whoopass to the Reapers and zerg."

"Can you vouch for Sarah Kerrigan, Jim Raynor?" asked Taldarin. "She who slipped the nets of C-Sec as the Amon ravaged the Citadel. She who bore steel on Judicator Aldaris, our last bulwark against the darkness of another civil war."

"I can speak for myself!" called out Kerrigan, red hair whipping in the Tuchanka wind as she stepped forward, away from the rest, on to Tuchanka. "And I can vouch for myself. I am here because I am needed on the battlefield. I am here because Saren Arterius – one whom you know you can trust – freed me."

"Saren's character is known," said Karass, thoughtful. "He bears grudges, but is honest in his dealings. His judgments are sound." _Geez, not sure Jim will like that._ Sure enough, glancing over at the man revealed a reddening face. "And I can see into your mind, what little you permit us."

"Then can you feel it, Praetors?" asked Kerrigan, taking another step forward, pressing a pale hand to her chest. "Do you understand that sensation?"

"You ask a protoss if they understand loss, child?" Karass laughed. "If they know regret and doubt? If a templar knows rage? Surely you do not think us above such emotion?"

"It can be difficult to tell, Praetors!" The sheer volume of Fenix's voice made Amy wince. _There a way to mute these guys?_ "We are a withdrawn lot, at the best of times!"

"Your intentions are good, then." Taldarin sounded appeased, but a note of warning crept in. "But your intentions have always been good, have they not? It does not wipe away the ill that has come for your actions. Still, we are not so hidebound as to turn away the aid of such a powerful warrior, not when zerg and Reaper are perched above and around us. I advocate a stay of sentence."

"Agreed!" called out Fenix.

"It is decided, then." Karass lowered from the heavens. Even up close, he remained enormous, standing well above Amy in her suit. When the Praetor's ruby eyes met hers, it sent a shock through her spine, made her knees shake harder. "That leaves us with the other judgment: what to do with the krogan, and those who commit crimes on their behalf."

"Excuse me?" asked Amy, trying not to squeak as she spoke. "We had nothing to do with what happened here!"

"We did not say you did. But several hundred krogan hostages, as well as some krogan themselves, were willing participants." Karass gestured to Okeer. "This one numbered among them."

"Willing is not the right word." Okeer strode forward. The normally massive krogan stood dwarfed by the protoss, in height if not width. The protoss regarded the doctor with a coolness Amy could not help but envy. "I don't know how to keep you bastards out of my mind. Look into it and tell me I conducted experiments for the UED with a smile on my face." The high templar stared down at him for a moment.

"Of that crime you are innocent." Okeer inclined his head. "However, you did splice krogan and zerg DNA, a crime for which I would happily see you dead." That wiped the smile from the doctor's face.

"Another stay of judgment, Karass," murmured Taldarin, guns turning slightly downward to better look at the krogan. "We lack expertise these scientists of theirs possess. Judgment can wait until the battle is won."

"And then it will come swiftly," proclaimed Fenix. "That I can guarantee!"

"At any rate," said Amy, stepping forward and eager to get out of range of Fenix's voice, which seemed to have only grown louder as the conversation wore on, "I need to see Urdnot Wrex and negotiate the release of the hostages. We are willing to cure the Genophage."

"I will oversee this exchange," said Taldarin, his voice a relative whisper compared to Fenix's, even as his war machine loomed over the proceedings like the bloody Bronze Colossus of Rhodes. "Such is my mandate."

"I will continue preparations for battle." Praetor Karass inclined his head to the gathered troops at the ramp. "I look forward to discussing battle strategy with you all, when the time comes. I am eager to fight alongside you at long last, Jim Raynor." Jim saluted the high templar as he took off, floating swiftly out of sight.

"And I will marshal our ground forces for our next strike against the Reapers!" Fenix's war machine shifted downward to look at the ramp more directly. "Jim, Sarah, Kaidan, Amelia – we will soon once more find ourselves on the battlefield together. A heartening thought! We have already survived worse than this. What more can they possibly throw at us? And if we have a Victus with us…" The protoss gave a throaty laugh. "En taro Tassadar, terran friends!"

The towering metal behemoth stomped off, its golden hull shining in the thin Tuchanka sunlight. That just left Taldarin, the protoss "diplomat." He also strode forward on thick legs of gleaming gold, leaving the others to follow, suddenly feeling small in their battlesuits.

"You worried?" asked Amy, glancing over to Sarah, who now walked beside her.

"I try to take these things a day at a time, Shepard." Sarah gave her a thin smile. "I get death threats all the time, but I try to take the protoss ones seriously. Way I see it, if I live long enough to see war's end … well, by then, maybe I'll have saved the Judicator's life one, and it'll have evened out."

"That's probably a healthy way to look at it," said Amy slowly. _I doubt I'll get the same opportunity. There was only ever one Earth._

"Our sins weigh heavily, Commander," said Sarah, eyes downcast. "Just take it a day at a time. Each day, be a little better than before."

"And sometimes, there's nowhere to go but up." Amy grinned a little, which Sarah returned.

"True enough."

They stopped talking then. Taldarin stomped onward past the broken-off bases of long destroyed buildings. Huddled to the sides under tents flapping in the wind, the krogan watched them go past, another procession of humans who ought to have no place on their homeworld. Amy stared back at them and wondered how many of them had been "cured," how many now had killer nanites floating through their veins. Sarah leaned over.

"Not many," she whispered. "The cured are being kept separate. For safety reasons, and…" She paused, reddened a little. "Umm, "continuity of species," reasons."

"Oh." Amy took another look at the stony faces lurking beneath the tents and canopies. "Hell of a tradeoff, there."

The Praetor took a few more steps forward and then hung a right, revealing a sea of krogan facing them. Above them, seated on a stone throne, a single bound UED scientist kneeling before him at its base, Chief of Chiefs Urdnot Wrex leered down at them all, crimson power armor glinting in the light, turning his head to either side to get a better look at them through his bloodshot eyes. If he recognized Amy in the mass of humans, he gave no sign of it.

"The terrans are here, Urdnot Wrex, to plead the case for your captives," said Praetor Taldarin. "They are under the protection of the Daelaam, and will be needed against the Reapers and zerg. Stay your wrath and listen."

Urdnot Wrex's head snapped up to the Praetor.

"And the prisoners?" he rumbled.

The Praetor paused.

"The prisoners remain subject to the judgment of the krogan people. The nature and magnitude of their crimes demands nothing less." Amy's heart sank. _He's not going to step in unless they attack us. The others are fair game._ Her hands clenched inside the suit. _But is that such a bad thing?_

"Good." Urdnot Wrex leaned forward in his throne. This time, his eyes lingered on Amy. _Moment of truth. Here we go._ With one final glance back at Jim, who kept his face neutral, at Kerrigan, who nodded in encouragement, at James and Kaidan, whose faces she could not see beneath their helmets, she stepped forward into the still mass of krogan, who parted without a word until she stood before Urdnot Wrex, chief of chiefs, the first alien she would ever have considered a friend.

The man at the throne's base, middle-aged and balding, looked at her in mute appeal, fluid running from the nose and eyes. Amy looked back and, despite everything, could not help but feel a pang in her gut. _I became a medic to save people…_

For what felt like an eternity, neither spoke. Wrex shifted in his seat. Amy looked down and realized, with a sinking feeling, that he cradled a shotgun in his lap. The blood on his throne looked dry but quite fresh, and she knew human blood when she saw it. She looked back up at Wrex, wincing.

"Is that you, Shepard?" asked Wrex quietly, quiet enough that she doubted any of the assembled krogan could hear. Amy could only nod.

"They killed Grunt, Shepard," continued Wrex, his voice quieter than Amy had ever heard it, but a growl began to build up in the back of the krogan's throat. "They killed Grunt!"

Behind Amy, krogan cried out, pounded their chests.

"They filled us with poison that they called a cure!"

Krogan howled and stomped their feet.

"And now they come to us and ask for forgiveness?" Wrex stood, and Amy became painfully aware of how small she was relative to a krogan in power armor. She had felt it before, of course, fighting alongside Wrex at Korhal … but back then, she had been behind him, keeping him upright. Now he looked at her with the same battle rage that had laid so many Dominion soldiers to waste that day.

"We do not come empty-handed, Wrex," said Amy, turning slightly so that the assembled krogan could hear her better. _He wants theatrics, I will give him theatrics._ "We come bearing the two doctors who stand the best chance of curing the Genophage for good and all." Amy pointed. "Both were held at gunpoint in your camps. Doctor Okeer and Doctor Solus."

"Mordin Solus?" asked Wrex, voice dropping suddenly. His head snapped to the back of the crowd, from which the two emerged, unbowed. "You bring STG here?"

"I bring my own medical expertise and a link to EDI, who has disabled the kill code for your nanites," continued Amy. "The hour is desperate and the krogan are needed once more."

"They would leash us again!" cried out a deep voice from the crowd. "Every time a threat emerges, they turn to us! Rachni, zerg, Reaper … I say, let them face this threat alone!"

The crowd rippled at this, the sentiment striking somewhere deep. Wrex glanced downward, lip curling. Then he stood, pumped the shotgun with one hand, and pressed it against the neck of the kneeling scientist, who slumped forward in the dirt. Amy took a step back.

"Wrex, please…"

"You do not understand, do you?" asked Wrex, voice quiet. "To have a knife pressed to your back for so long, only to feel it disappear for a moment … before realizing it is now against your throat." Wrex sighed. "This is necessary, Shepard."

The shotgun coughed once. Amy felt her face contort without her willing it as the man's head simply came apart, leaving a stain of congealed raspberry syrup against the dusty concrete. The krogan cheered, but Amy could barely hear it as the bile rose in her throat. _So it goes. So it goes. Don't puss out on me, now._

"Don't give up," Sarah's voice. Amy felt something strange, like someone had pressed a cool glass of water to her lips as she lay dying of thirst. Something burned inside, making the sweat dissipate. "This is not the time. I can help you. Just relax."

Amy nodded to herself. Wrex raised the bloodied shotgun in one hand.

"Such is the price for betraying our people!" he called out, before lowering it and turning to Amy. "Now you understand, Commander? Thirty-six of yours now lie dead, but hundreds remain. Yet what you consider a tragedy would have paled compared to the bloodshed Stukov would have wrought, had his order to activate the nanites been carried out!"

"Enough!" shouted Amy, tired of the theatrics, her voice ringing out among the krogan. "I am not here to watch you kill your captives one by one. We can offer you a cure, a fixed one. We can offer you an operational battlecruiser, crewed by Raynor's Raiders, whom I am certain you know by reputation."

Amy turned her back to Wrex, looked down at the assembled krogan. _All men._ Made sense. Cured or not, they had to be more cautious with their women than ever. _I feel like it would be an easier sell if they were here._ But she had to make do. Somehow, she could sense Sarah's smile even if she could not see the ghost.

"I can offer you my own services in battle, I who stood beside David Anderson as he fought the viscerators and slayed their Thresher Maw." Krogan began to murmur at this; she suspected they had forgotten about that.

"Moreover, I can offer you the two greatest known experts on the Genophage who, for all their faults, are the most qualified people alive in the galaxy to aid you, and have all the reason in the world to do so." She rounded on Wrex. "And finally, I can offer you a question, Urdnot Wrex. Say I leave you here, with your captives, who you slay one by one. I leave you with the zerg and Reapers. The question is this: what then?"

"What then?" Wrex cocked his head. "We rebuild, as only the krogan can!"

"Only a handful of you are cured. The Reapers are at your doorstep. The galaxy is burning." Amy held up a finger. "What then?"

Wrex grimaced. _He's considered this. He knows he cannot meaningfully answer it._

"The protoss will not abandon us-"

"The Daelaam cannot guarantee our efforts will not be directed elsewhere," interjected Praetor Taldarin, making Amy privately give him thanks. _Will he hear?_ "If Aiur came under threat, we would be called home, as would only be appropriate. We can aid no one if we cannot save ourselves."

"You _need_ us," called out Amy. "That is why you brought us here to begin with. Why you trusted us. And Stukov betrayed that trust. Which is why I am here, as a human to say…" Amy took a deep breath. _I know that I am not responsible, but … it must be said._

"…I am sorry, for what we did. I am here to make it right and have brought the people we need to make it happen. And I _mourn_ for Urdnot Grunt – mourn him both as a member of his _krannt_ , and as one of the two people who greeted him when he emerged from his tank."

Krogan shifted in place and glanced at each other. No one pounded their chests or shouted. Amy suspected the protoss might have had something to do with that – their speech tended to calm people down. _Gives me the opening I need._

"I come to you as someone who respected the krogan ways as no other human has done before," continued Amy, shutting her eyes, focusing on the fire Kerrigan had lent her, "as someone who has fought and bled alongside you here on Tuchanka, to heed my words: if the krogan are to survive, if humanity is to survive, if the galaxy is to survive, we must do so together. There is no such thing as a _krannt_ of one." A krogan at the front snorted at this, gave a nod of his head.

"You need us," finished Amy, "and we need you, too. So. Can you give us the chance to fix the mess we've made?" Amy extended a hand towards Wrex. "We've got some big monsters that need killing. There's no one better than the krogan for that."

Wrex loomed over Amy, the blood still dribbling from the barrel of his shotgun. _So it goes._ Amy tried not to glance down. She could see nothing in Wrex's expression – not anger, not doubt, nothing. Even with the fire burning inside, her legs shook.

Wrex glanced out at the crowd.

"Raise your hand if you know how to cure the Genophage."

The krogan looked at each other as if this were some kind of joke. From the back, Mordin and Okeer stiffly raised their arms. Wrex grunted, looked down at the corpse at his feet and nudged it with his grisly shotgun barrel.

"Why aren't you raising yours?" He gave a great roll of his shoulders. "Well. We can set some terms." The krogan began to murmur, but stopped as Wrex bellowed once.

"I have a son!" he called out. "If I get my way, soon you'll all have sons, too!" Wrex curled one finger and motioned for Amy to follow. The krogan parted as they passed. One spat a gob of fluid at her feet as she went by … yet others pounded their fists together, or their chest, as she and Wrex passed. None dared speak out.

Wrex said nothing until they stepped aside a great purple tent, set aside from the rest. From inside, Amy heard gurgling. Once she looked around, she saw the source – a krogan female with a swaddled mass in her arms, looking at Amy with a mix of alarm and suspicion. Then, her narrowed eyes widened back to normal.

"Commander Shepard." Urdnot Bakara inclined her head. She stepped forward. "Urdnot Jarrod."

"Bakara-" began Wrex, a warning note in his voice, but Bakara shot him a sharp look and he went silent. Amy stood there, eyes wide, staring down at the little crimson bundle before her. _Oh. Oh wow, they're cute._ The head crest remained flat, no ridge. The eyes – more pink than red. And krogan without all those teeth looked a heck of a lot cuter. Still, she didn't reach out.

"Are you sure, Bakara?" asked Amy. Bakara nodded.

Amy took the krogan child in her arms. She'd never been one to squeal at babies, well, not past the edge of nineteen anyway, and not counting Grunt, but still, it was all she could do not to make noises reminiscent of a tea kettle as she hugged Jarrod tight, but not too tight, against her chest. Pressure built in her sinuses as she realized, well, this would have been Grunt's brother. _Did they ever get to meet?_

"You carry our future in your arms, Commander," murmured Bakara, reaching out for her child. Amy relinquished the babe carefully. "This is what our people long for. Can you give it to them?"

"My doing as well," grunted Wrex, hunching over and grabbing something. He hauled over a smooth stone table, from which a light flickered every few seconds. He dropped it with another grunt. "You spoke well enough for a human, Shepard. Bringing up Anderson was a good move."

"Did you have to kill him?" asked Amy sharply. Wrex only glowered at her.

"You might not be able to fathom what my people are feeling. I can. They needed that blood to tide them over, to know I'm not a soft touch." Wrex stomped a single foot. "The krogan clans are united for the first time in centuries, Commander. Behind me. I cannot afford to lose a single one."

"You murdered a man in front of me as he begged for life," said Amy, refusing to look away. "I don't care how necessary it was. Do not do that again."

Wrex snorted and tossed his head, but said nothing. He merely slapped the side of the table, which brought up a flickering image of what Amy assumed was Tuchanka.

"Your cure," he said shortly, "you were planning on using the Shroud, right?"

Amy gaped for a moment before recovering.

"How did you-"

"How else to spread something across the entire planet?" Wrex shook his head. "I can't speak for my people, but _I'm_ not stupid, Shepard. I'll take that as a yes, then." Wrex sighed. He made a motion, and the planet began to zoom in on a single region.

"Is there a problem?" asked Amy, a sinking sensation in her gut again.

"A small one. One I won't be spreading around." The image stopped zooming in. There, a single Reaper Destroyer picked over a massive destroyed structure, which now resembled nothing so much as a heap of slag.

"Reapers destroyed it forty minutes after landing," said Wrex, resignation etched into every syllable. Amy shut her eyes, feeling the pressure build deep in her skull. "Like I said, won't be spreading that around. But if your doctors have a plan B for that cure, I am all ears."

* * *

 **Next Chapter: Liara**


End file.
